Outlaw's Bride (5 page)

J
ohnny was in the kitchen two days later washing the breakfast dishes when raiders came through again. He paid them no mind until he heard footsteps rushing up the back porch steps. Ragan slammed inside with a choked, “Oh my goodness!”

Johnny dropped the cup he was washing and whirled to face her.

“What’s wrong?”

“The…the…”

She was so upset she couldn’t get the words out. Had she been shot? Had one of those roughnecks accosted her? He looked her over briefly, and she seemed to be unhurt.

He wiped his soapy hands on his denims and crossed to the screen door to look out. “Does the judge need a gun?” Proctor would have one somewhere.

She shook her head, biting her lower lip between small, even white teeth. “They shot all of our chickens!”

He frowned. “They shot what?”

“The chickens.” She wrung her hands, tears spilling from her eyes. “They shot the judge’s
chickens
!” She burst into tears.

Stunned, he awkwardly moved to calm her. For a moment he was so near even he knew she would object. She was hysterical over chickens? It just meant sixteen fewer beaks to feed.

His hand came up to stroke her hair, and then dropped away. “It’s not the end of the world. You can get more chickens.”

She lifted her head, sniffling. “You don’t understand. What am I going to do with
sixteen
dead hens?”

His smile waned, and then he groaned. He hadn’t thought about that. Sixteen chickens were a lot of birds to pluck.

That afternoon, the Honorable Proctor McMann dropped the notes he and Ragan were going over and dove under the dining room table as bullets again ricocheted through the front parlor. “The cat, Ragan! Get the cat!”

Johnny dropped out of his chair, dodging the hail of gunfire.

More shots and then Kitty yelped.

Procky turned white. “She’s been hit, Ragan!”

“Here, Kitty. Here, Kitty, Kitty.” Ragan crawled along in front of the sofa, groping underneath for the wounded pet. Her eyes focused on a tuft of black fur quaking beneath the round lamp table. “There you are.” Reaching for the feline, she gently tugged. The cat dug into the wool rug, refusing to budge.

“Kitty!” Judge McMann yelled. “How bad is it, Ragan?” His voice hinged on panic.

Ragan gently extracted the pet and examined the superficial wound. “She’s all right, Procky. She’s just nicked.” Ragan ducked as more shots pinged through the room, shaking her head in resignation as a pillow on the sofa exploded. The picture of a young Maddy McMann, which had been hanging over the mantel, spun across the floor like a toy top.

Ragan tucked the yowling animal safely under her arm and crawled under the table to join the judge. Motioning for Johnny to join them, she made room for him in the cramped shelter.

Judge McMann reached for his pet, tenderness shining in his eyes. “That was a close one. When the shooting stops I’ll clean that wound— nothing at all to be concerned about.” His lined features shown with pain. “So far we’ve lost livestock, but never people or pets.”

Kitty nuzzled the judge’s chest, purring loudly.

Ping!

Another bullet bounced off the porch.

The judge sat stroking Kitty as a crystal chandelier swung overhead, its dangling bangles tinkling and sending tiny flashes of light bouncing from wall to wall. One moment they’d been having their meeting, the next the place was exploding.

Horsemen galloped down the block before turning to make another pass by the judge’s house.

Johnny flinched as a bullet took a hunk out of the table leg.
“Why
do you people put up with this?”

“Because we don’t know how to stop it,” the judge said. “If we shoot ’em, then more come. What’s a body to do?”

“We’ve tried,” Ragan added.

“I suppose that’s what started our interest on doing a book on gangs and criminals,” the judge noted. “I can’t imagine what would make a man or woman enjoy a life of crime.”

Ragan glanced at Johnny. “It used to be a quiet town. Then the gangs started coming across the border once they were liquored up. Last month the citizens voted to change the town’s name from Paradise to Barren Flats.” She sighed as hot lead shattered a windowpane. “If only we knew how to stop this.”

“Well, your father tried,” the judge muttered, still peering at Kitty’s wound.

“Yes, and look where it got him.”

F
ulton Ramsey, Ragan’s father, was once a community leader. He’d pastored Paradise’s only church and cared deeply about his flock. He had tried to stand up to the gangs and was burned out, his cattle shot, and the church torched and burned to the ground. The death of his only son, Jacob, was the final straw.

Ragan still hurt when she thought about her young brother. The boy had died racing his horse home to warn them that raiders were coming again. The horse stumbled, and Jacob was thrown in the lane leading to the Ramsey house. He died where he fell.

Papa finally succumbed to despair over his losses. His anguish was so deep, so irreversible, that he’d retreated into a world that no one, not even his daughters, were able to penetrate.

He now sat silently for hours either whittling toy animal figures or staring into space, a broken man. Once Fulton Ramsey had been looked upon as a charismatic man of God; now the townsfolk merely looked upon him with pity.

If Ragan could just hold the family together until Jo and Becca were raised, she’d be grateful.

Procky was getting on in years and Papa—well, there was no telling how long Papa would live. His body was healthy, even though his mind was not.

Once her responsibilities were fulfilled, she wanted to leave this
raucous town and attend school. Perhaps, if Procky had his way, she would study for the bar. There would be enormous sacrifices if she decided to do so. She’d have to move far away from her sisters because it was mostly Midwestern schools that admitted women for law degrees. Then she’d have to fight to prove that as a lawyer she could handle cases as well as a man. Most women took over practices begun by their fathers or husbands, but she would have to prove her own worth.

The judge had already told her he would provide funds for her tuition, and she could go anytime that she wanted. But right now that was impossible—too many people in Barren Flats were dependent on her.

B
y that evening the commotion had died away, Kitty’s wound was cleaned and dressed, and supper was over. The judge settled on the open porch where a cool breeze relieved the day’s heat. Ragan handed the men bowls of blackberry cobbler with a generous portion of thick cream over the top. Leaning back, Procky stroked his pet. “These raids are getting more and more violent. Kitty could have been killed today. It’s nothing short of a miracle that someone hasn’t been shot during the raids. It’s time to call a town meeting.” He focused on Johnny. “Son, I’m curious. What would you do about this problem?”

A muscle tightened in Johnny’s jaw. “It’s none of my concern.”

Disappointment lined the judge’s features. “Any suggestion would be welcome at this point. I would assume you are not a stranger to the problem. You’d have a fresh outlook on it.”

Pouring coffee, Ragan said softly, “Mr. McAllister, if you have any ideas—”

“I don’t.” He didn’t know a thing about gangs, and he resented the inference that he did. He’d been convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Otherwise, he’d kept to himself. He wasn’t a criminal. At least, not yet.

Ragan glanced at the judge. They both shook their heads.

She finished pouring coffee and set the pot aside, and then she sat in a wicker chair beside the judge. “Shooting the chickens and wounding
Kitty are really the last straw. I’m glad you suggested the town meeting, Procky. Surely someone can come up with a plan this time.”

“What did you do with all those chickens?” the judge asked.

“I had Mr. McAllister deliver them about town. I figured they shouldn’t go to waste.”

“No…certainly not.”

“I’ll make posters tonight for a town meeting and hang them in the morning.” Ragan glanced at Johnny. “You can help, Mr. McAllister.”

Johnny spooned a bite of cobbler in his mouth. Of course. He would have bet on it.

“If only there were enough able-bodied men in town…” The judge gazed contemplatively at the sunset. “But most are older. They don’t have the health or the gumption to get involved, even when their family’s safety is in jeopardy.”

Early the next morning, Ragan and Johnny tacked up posters about the town meeting that night. Curious crowds gathered around trees and storefronts to read the circulars.

“Count on the Southerns being there,” Frankie called to Ragan. His wife, Kensil, nodded.

“See you tonight,” Timothy Seeden promised as he left the bank.

“We’ll be there with bells on,” Minnie Rayles said. “I’m sick to death of all this violence!”

“Shooting chickens, the very notion!”

“I’ll shore nuff be there,” Rudolf Miller called, laying aside his hammer and anvil and waving.

Handing Johnny the last notice, Ragan stepped back to watch him post it. “Isn’t this exciting?”

“Thrilling.” He missed the nail and walloped his thumb instead. A bad word followed.

“No profanity, Mr. McAllister.” She picked up her skirt and moved on.

The Oasis Saloon, the largest establishment in town, served as a border watering hole and town meeting hall. The proprietors, Florence and Hubie Banks, took orders for lemonade and coffee as people made their way into the establishment a little after five. By five thirty all the seats were filled, with people lining the walls. Judge McMann left the group he was chatting with and rolled to the front of the room. He raised his hand for attention and gradually a hush fell over the crowd.

“Folks, I’m glad to see you here. Appreciate your concern. Now, we’ve called this meeting to make some decisions. This raid problem is out of hand and we can’t ignore it any longer. But first, Reverend Pillton has something to say.” He waved toward the black-frocked minister sitting near the back of the room. “Reverend.”

Samuel Pillton stood and a hush fell over the crowd. “I don’t know what to do about the violence, but it’s time we repair our place of worship. I don’t think it makes a lot of difference to God where we say our prayers, but we need to take a stand and show these hooligans what’s important in our lives. Why, Kitty was wounded in this last raid, and the next thing we know it’ll be one of us. It’s time we put our full faith in God and take a stand.” His voice was soft, but as with his sermons, everyone understood his message.

There was silence, and then a mounting buzz. It wasn’t long before it was decided to begin restoring the church come Saturday. Work assignments were handed out.

“Now, let’s address the best way to deal with the main problem at hand,” the judge said above the noisy clatter.

“The chicken killers!” Rudolph shouted. “Any man who’d shoot our chickens is just plain mean. We got to do somethin’!”

“What are you goin’ to do about ’em, Judge?” someone called.

“That’s what we’re here to decide. What are we going to do about them?”

Johnny looked at Ragan, who was sitting in the second row. Three younger girls sat with her. They were undoubtedly the sisters she talked
about; the girls bore a marked resemblance to each other. His eyes effortlessly slid over Ragan’s slender frame, noticing the way her nose tilted slightly, just enough to be interesting.

“We gotta do something, Procky! There’s not going to be anything left of the town if we don’t!”

The judge lifted his hand again for quiet. “It seems to me we’re going to have to take action or face the risk of getting burned out.”

“I think we should move the entire town,” Maggie Anglo volunteered. “Get farther from the border. These hoodlums ride through, go into Mexico and get liquored up, and then here they come, riding back through shooting up again. Barren Flats is straight in their path.”

A man in the back stood up. “Maggie’s right. If we move the town ten miles farther north, we wouldn’t be in their way.”

The old sheriff held his hand to his ear. “You going to pack that big two-story house of yours onto the back of a horse and move it?”

“Yeah, and how about the bank, the sheriff’s office, the stores, and all the other buildings? You going to give ’em all to the gangs?” Rudolph Miller called out. “We can’t run away from our trouble. We have to face it, and face it now!”

Alvin Lutz got to his feet. “As sheriff of this town, I’m doin’ the best I can. There are at least a dozen different gangs that I’ve counted riding through here. Some have as many as fifteen riders.”

Jewell Scott twisted a lace handkerchief and seemed on the verge of tears. “Oh, my. Alvin’s right. I’ve counted at least that many. It’s very disturbing. I’m thinking about moving clean out of the county. I don’t feel safe in my own home anymore.”

Several women, some openly crying, spoke fervently of their fear for their children and their frustration with having to clean up after every raid.

“Plaster sifts down from the ceiling when they ride through. There are so many bullet holes, Clifford can’t get them repaired.” Sylvia Kincaid shot her husband a frustrated glance. “The mister was taking a nap in the parlor yesterday when they passed through. When he woke
up, he had so much plaster on his face he looked like a ghost.” When her neighbors laughed, she blushed. “Well, he did!”

A man rose to his feet near the back. “I say we build a new road around the town. Make ’em change their course!”

Heads turned at the suggestion.

“Frank, a new road wouldn’t stop ’em, and that could be bad for business.” Shorty Lynch frowned. “Real bad. I get a lot of drifters coming through here for groceries, and there’s always a few with horses that need reshoeing.”

“Shorty, neither you nor Rudy do business with the gangs. What business would you lose?”

“Well, there could be some lost with a new road.”

“Be a lot of trouble to build a new road, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes
,
it would. We’d have to put it a mile or so to the west—”

Austin Plummer jumped to his feet. “Now, hold on there. That’d cut up my land. I just got my fence back up from a raid a week or two back.” The farmer’s face flushed and his fists balled. “We’d have to make that new road to the east of town.”

A second man stood and appeared ready to fight anyone who agreed with Austin. “Wait just a minute! I can’t split up my homestead, and I don’t want those bandits riding through my property. Don’t be planning any road through my land!”

Fans waved in front of faces and handkerchiefs mopped foreheads.

The judge shook his head. “Listen to yourselves. Can’t anyone agree on anything? We got to do something, people. And now!”

Johnny sat quietly, listening to the exclamations and declarations break out around him. It was amazing how far grown men would go to avoid trouble.

Minnie Rayles shot to her feet. “I say we hire a shootist!”

A hush fell over the room. The citizens of Barren Flats looked at one another and then murmured back and forth. A shootist? What shootist?

“What are you talking about, Minnie?” The banker’s wife turned around in her seat to stare at her.

“A shootist.” Minnie sat back down in her chair and straightened her hat.

“Good grief, Minnie.” Her husband, Carl, filled the stunned silence. “Where are we gonna get a shootist?”

“Right here, that’s where.” Minnie fished in her reticule and came up with an article from a journal. “Says here that Sulphur Springs was having the same trouble as us. They hired them a shootist, Lars Mercer. He cleaned that town up slick as a whistle. He could do the same thing here. The paper says he’s still up there.”

Johnny sat up straighter. Lars Mercer? The legendary gunslinger?

Carl took the piece of paper from his wife, his eyes scanning the article.

“A shootist?” Alvin Lutz got slowly to his feet, his hand cupped to his ear. “How much would something like that cost?”

Minnie frowned. “Don’t rightly know, but we could wire Mercer and ask.”

Everett lifted his hand. “I could send the wire off first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Now, hold on,” the pastor objected. “We can’t hire to have someone killed! We’re God-fearing folk!”

“Kill or be killed,” Carl said. “We don’t have a choice.”

A buzz went up as the crowd warmed to the idea. Johnny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were willing to hire a shootist to do their dirty work?