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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SIX
A week later, in response to a telegram sent by Frank Cobb, the Texas Rangers took Marmaduke Tweng away. Before they left, their sergeant told Kate that Tweng would most probably go to trial and that she and the other eyewitnesses could expect to be called to give evidence.
Three weeks after the Rangers, a pair of middle-aged army captains showed up and spent several hours inspecting the wreckage of the
Emperor Maximilian
. They seemed less than impressed.
Captain Forbes, an officer with impressive handlebar whiskers and a whiskey nose, said to Kate, “I know how distressing my questions must be for you, dear lady, but did anyone take cannons out of the machine?”
“There were no cannons, Captain,” Kate said. “More sponge cake?”
The officer brightened and held out his plate. “I fear I'm imposing on your hospitality, ma'am. As bachelor officers, I'm afraid Captain Hale and myself do not often experience the exquisite joy of sponge cake, especially when served by such a beautiful lady.”
Kate smiled at the compliment. “You are not imposing in the least, sir. I do enjoy seeing men eat.”
Captain Hale had soulful brown eyes and no doubt, a hidden sadness. “The army has long been interested in a steam-driven fighting machine that can carry cannon, but the one that attacked your ranch falls very short of our expectations.” He smiled under his mustache. “The
Emperor Maximilian
was a clever clockwork toy, no more than that.”
Kate wanted to say that it was a clockwork toy that killed one man and maimed another, but she held her peace. The minds of the officers were made up and nothing she, a mere civilian, could say would change their opinion.
The officers left with a sponge cake for the trail and Kate thought that was the end of it. But a month later, on a cold fall morning, two silent Pinkertons in bowler hats and long wool coats arrived.
Like the army officers, they inspected the wreckage but ventured no reason for their visit and didn't reveal their conclusions. They arrived and were gone in less than thirty minutes.
That night, Cobb reported to Kate on conditions on the range. The grass was plentiful and the cattle seemed in good shape. “Mose said they look like the fat kine in the Bible . . . but he's always saying stuff like that.”
“Mose says we need to get rid of the wreckage on our pasture.” Kate poured more coffee in his cup. “He says two women burned to death in there and that it's an evil thing. Did you notice that the cattle don't go near it?”
“I guess we could hire somebody to take it away, Kate. But it's going to be an expensive proposition.”
“I don't care, Frank. I want it gone. I swear the ghosts of Savannah St. James and Leah still haunt the awful thing.”
Cobb nodded. “I'll see to it.”
“Please do. It brings back some terrible memories.”
 
 
Cobb brought in several contractors who inspected the massive heap of scrap iron, rubbed their chins, then refused the job.
“The word has gotten around about what happened here,” one man said. “None of my men will work on this hulk.”
And that's where the matter might have remained . . . but during the first days of winter, the government arrived and everything changed.
The Federals arrived with a dozen heavy freight wagons, fifty men bearing an assortment of cutting tools, and an escort of an army infantry company.
Despite the show of power, the man in charge was a lowly clerk in the War Department, accompanied by a stern, middle-aged female secretary who would later lecture Dr. Fullerton on the laxative virtues of prune juice.
The clerk's name was Atwood Mitchell and he proved to be affable enough. Sitting in Kate's parlor, he told her the wreck would be cut into pieces and loaded onto the wagons. “It will then be taken by rail to Washington for further study.”
“The government's interest surprises me, Mr. Mitchell. Especially since the army showed no interest.”
“Ah, yes, but we're acting on a recommendation by the Pinkertons, Mrs. Kerrigan. The Pinkertons, more than most, realize that we're living in a technological age driven by the power of steam. It drives our factories, our great oceangoing ships, our powerful locomotives, and soon it will govern every aspect of our lives.” Warming to his subject, Mitchell took a quick gulp of coffee and said, “There is already talk in Europe, yes, and in Washington, that the lower orders could be locked in their factories while steam power supplies their every need by way of food, clothing, and rudimentary accommodation. Think of it, Mrs. Kerrigan, the working class need never leave its workbenches except to eat and sleep.”
“I don't think I would wish to live in the kind of future you envision, Mr. Mitchell,” Kate said, her eyes frosty.
“Well, of course, not, Mrs. Kerrigan. You are a lady of means and beef production is a necessary part of the plan. The masses must be fed, you know. No, I was talking only about the working poor.” He smiled. “Or, as the modern term in Washington has it, the factory poor.”
Oblivious to Kate's mood, Mitchell rose to his feet. “A thousand thanks for your hospitality, dear lady. Now I must see to my workmen.”
Cobb, who had been listening intently to Mitchell's speech, felt a mean little pain in his belly. “You know if the man who invented that steam monstrosity outside has been hung?”
“Oh dear no, sir. Indeed he has not. That is, if you're referring to Mr. Tweng . . . or should I say
Sir
Marmaduke Tweng since Queen Victoria has seen fit to knight him for his services to steam engineering.” Mitchell smiled. “My dear sir, you don't hang engineers of Sir Marmaduke's caliber.”
“You do know he killed a man and crippled another,” Kate pointed out rather coolly.
“Water under the bridge, gammon and spinach, as Mr. Dickens says. Sir Marmaduke is back in Washington even as we speak, working on a steam-powered balloon that can carry an entire ballroom, including an orchestra and two hundred waltzers under its belly.” Mitchell's voice took on a reverent tone. “He's a genius indeed, is Sir Marmaduke.”
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SEVEN
Kate Kerrigan and Frank Cobb stood at a distance and watched the
Emperor Maximilian
cut to pieces. The day was chilly and for the first time in a year, Cobb wore a sheepskin and shotgun chaps. Kate had on a pioneer bonnet and a heavy wool cloak.
The wagons were fully loaded and the machine all but gone except for a few scraps of metal and charred wood when Mitchell bent at the waist, picked up something, and examined it closely. After a few moments he stepped to Kate and said, “I found this on the ground, Mrs. Kerrigan. Did you lose it, perhaps?” In the palm of his hand was a gold ring with a massive, bloodred ruby stone. “If it had been in the steam vehicle when it burned, I'm sure the gold would have melted.”
Instinctively, Kate shrank back from the ring. “It's not mine. It belonged to a woman called Savannah St. James. She died in the fire.”
“Ah, then perhaps you'd like to have it as a keepsake,” Mitchell offered.
Kate looked ready to object but Cobb said, “I'll take it. Mrs. Kerrigan is a little overwrought at the moment.”
Mitchell nodded. “Yes, I can understand that. And now, Mrs. Kerrigan, I must bid you adieu. Thank you once again for your hospitality.”
“You are most welcome, Mr. Mitchell,” Kate said, giving him a little curtsy as etiquette demanded. In fact, she thoroughly disliked the man.
As the short day shaded into evening, she and Cobb watched the wagons leave.
Kate turned to him, her back stiff with anger, “Why did you say I was overwrought and why did you take the ring?”
“As to the first, I thought you seemed upset,” Cobb said.
“Well, I wasn't, Frank. I was glad to see that horrible thing leave. And as to the second?”
Cobb shook his head. “I don't know, Kate, I really don't.”
“How could you possibly think I wanted a ring that once was on the finger of Savannah St. James?”
“I . . . I didn't. I don't know what I thought.”
“Chicken and dumplings for dinner tonight, Frank. Are you looking forward to it?”
Cobb smiled. “I sure am.”
“Well, you won't get any until you get rid of that ring.”
“I'll chunk it away first chance I get.”
“No, I have a better idea. Come with me.”
 
 
A cold north wind swept the cemetery on the rise as Kate and Cobb made their way to the most recent graves. Savannah St. James's grave was a little way from the rest.
Kate could not abide the thought of her resting near Count Andropov. She shivered. “This is where we laid her. One day I'll get a marker for her. Let me have the ring, Frank.” When Cobb passed it to her, she laid it on the grave. “It was hers. Now she's got it back.”
“Do you think she knows?”
Kate nodded. “She knows. Wherever she is, she knows.”
“She was beautiful, you know.”
“Yes, you said that when we buried her. And you were right. Savannah was a beautiful women.” Kate raised her pert nose and smelled the air. “Ah, chicken and dumplings are in the wind.”
“Good. I'm starving.”
“Frank, that future Mitchell was talking about. Will it come to pass?”
“Kate, it's already here.”
“But it won't be our future.”
“Not a chance.” Cobb waved a hand. “Our future is out there on the grass with the cattle. The Kerrigan Ranch is our future.”
“Will we have peace now, do you think?”
“Kate, it will soon be 1870. Modern times. Savannah St. James was the last of the old-timey outlaws.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” Cobb took Kate's hand and they walked to the cabin, hungry for chicken and dumplings, and the warmth of the family and the fire in the grate.
E
PILOGUE
Over the next couple years, Kate Kerrigan prospered as her land and herds grew and she became the most important rancher in West Texas. She soon abandoned the little cabin and built herself a fine house. It was not yet as large as it would become, but two of its eventual four pillars were already in place.
Marco Salas forged himself an ornate peg leg of steel and brass that even had a slot for his favorite pocket watch. He expanded his blacksmith's shop and boasted to all that would listen that he had the finest artificial leg in Texas.
Dr. Mary Fullerton left to study surgery in Germany, but she and Kate corresponded regularly. Pete Slicer sold his guns and followed her.
Henry Brown later rode with Billy the Kid, became a lawman, and was lynched after a botched bank robbery.
Peace came to the Kerrigan Ranch but even as 1870 arrived, dire and powerful men cast envious eyes on Kate's green pastures and fat cattle. Once again, her sons and Frank Cobb at her side, she would be forced to take up the gun and fight for what was hers.
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW
 
 
THE KERRIGANS
A Texas Dynasty
 
The Family That Tamed the Wild West!
In a sprawling new saga that embodies the pioneer spirit,
the masters of the Western introduce the Kerrigans,
a rough-and-tumble clan of pioneers,
making their own way across darkest America,
led by a woman as ferocious as the Texas sun.
 
A strong, beautiful mother of five, Kate Kerrigan
has made do since losing her husband in the bloody
Battle of Shiloh. Now, two years after the Civil War,
there's nothing left for them in Tennessee but poverty
and bad memories, so Kate decides a better life awaits
them in far-off West Texas. Thus begins a 1,000-mile
trek through some of the harshest and most dangerous
territory on the frontier. By pulling together,
the Kerrigans discover the conviction to overcome
the unimaginable hardships and the strength of
spirit that will help them build one of the largest
cattle empires in the history of the American West.
 
 
THE KERRIGANS
A Texas Dynasty
 
BY
W
ILLIAM
W.
JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
 
 
On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.
C
HAPTER
O
NE
“You had to do it, Miz Kerrigan,” Sheriff Miles Martin said, hat in hand. “He came looking for trouble.”
Kate Kerrigan stood at her parlor window, stared into moon-dappled darkness, and said nothing.
“I mean, he planned to rob you, and after you fed him, an' all,” Martin said.
Kate turned, a tall, elegant woman. Her once flaming red hair was now gray but her fine-boned, Celtic beauty was still enough to turn a man's head.
She smiled at Martin.
“He planned to murder me, Miles. Cover his tracks, I guess.”
“Where is Trace?” Martin said.
“Out on the range, and so is his brother,” Kate said.
“And Miss Ivy and Miss Shannon?”
“My segundo's wife is birthing a child. Doc Woodruff is off fly-fishing somewhere, so Ivy and Shannon went over to Lucy Cobb's cabin to help. Lucy has already had three, so I don't foresee any problems.”
Then as though she feared she was tempting fate, Kate said in the lilting Irish brogue she'd never lost, “May Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in heaven protect her this night.”
“He was a city slicker,” Martin said.
The sheriff, a drink of water with a walrus mustache and sad brown eyes, stood in front of the fire. He had a Colt self-cocker in his holster and a silver star pinned to the front of his sheepskin.
The fall of 1907 had been cold and the winter was shaping up to be a sight worse.
“He had the look of one,” Kate said.
Martin looked uncomfortable and awkward, all big hands and spurred boots. He chose his words carefully, like a barefoot man walking through a nettle patch.
“How did it happen, Miz Kerrigan? I need to ask.”
“Of course, Miles,” Kate said. “Why don't you sit and I'll get you a brandy. Only to keep out the chill, you understand.”
The big lawman sat gratefully in the studded leather chair by the fire.
“I'm right partial to brandy,” he said. “Warms a man's insides, I always say.”
Kate poured brandy in two huge snifters, handed one to Martin, and settled herself in the chair opposite.
The lawman thought she sat like a queen, and why not? Kate's range was larger than some European kingdoms.
Martin played for time.
He produced the makings and said, “May I beg your indulgence, ma'am?”
“Please do. My son Quinn is much addicted to cigarettes, a habit he learned from our vaqueros, who smoke like chimneys.”
“Doctors say it's good for the chest,” Martin said.
“So I've heard, but I do not set store by what doctors say.”
Kate sipped her brandy, and then stooped to poke the logs into life. She didn't look up.
“I've killed men before, Miles.”
“I know, Miz Kerrigan, but I was trying to spare you a lot of fool questions.”
The woman's emerald green eyes fixed on Martin's face.
“I'll tell you what happened here earlier this evening and you can ask your questions as you see fit.”
The lawman nodded.
“I'd given the servants the night off, and I was alone in the house when I heard a horse come to a halt outside.”
“What time was that, Miz Kerrigan?”
“It was seven o'clock. I was here, sitting by the fire eating the cold supper the cook had prepared for me, and heard the grandfather clock chime in the hallway. A few moments later a knock came to the door.”
Kate's blue silk day dress rustled as she sat back and made herself more comfortable.
“I answered the summons and opened to a man, an ordinary looking fellow wearing an old dark jacket that was several sizes too large for him. He had no overcoat; the evening was cold and he shivered.
“He said he was hungry and could I spare him a bite of food? Since I'd no kitchen staff available, I opened the door and let him come inside.”
“That was a mistake, Miz Kerrigan,” Martin said.
Kate smiled.
“Miles, over the years I've let many men into this house. Geronimo once sat where you're sitting. We had tea and cake and he wanted to talk about old Queen Vic.”
The lawman stirred uncomfortably in his chair and glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected to see the old Apache's ghost glowering at him from a corner.
“Well, I led the way to the kitchen and the man followed me. He said his name was Tom and that he was looking for ranch work. He had the most singular eyes, rather mean and foxy, like those I used to see in some Texas gunmen back in the old days. I must admit, I did not trust him.”
“You did right,” Martin said. “Not trusting him, I mean.”
“Thank you, Miles. I'm sure your approval will stand me in good stead should you consider hanging me.”
“Miz Kerrigan! I have no intention . . . I mean . . . I wouldn't . . .”
Kate gave the flustered lawman a dazzling smile.
“There, there, Miles, don't distress yourself. I'm certain the facts of the case will speak for themselves and banish all doubt from your mind.”
“Yes, yes, I'm sorry. Please proceed.”
Martin was fifty years old and Kate Kerrigan could still make him blush.
“I fixed the man some beef sandwiches, and indeed, he was as wolf hungry as he professed,” Kate said. “It was after he'd eaten heartily that things took a dangerous turn.”
“Was the sugar scattered all over the kitchen floor part of it?” Martin said.
“Indeed it was. A small sugar sack had been left on the counter by a careless maid and Tom, if that was really his name—”
“It wasn't,” Martin said.
Kate looked at him in surprise.
“Please go on, Miz Kerrigan,” the lawman said.
“Well, the man jumped up, grabbed the sugar sack, and threw the contents over the floor. He shoved the empty sack at me and said, ‘You, fill this. The jewels you're wearing first.'”
“‘Mister,'” I said, “‘I've been threatened by more dangerous bad men than you.'”
Martin reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a revolver.
“Then he drew this on you.”
Kate glanced at the gun.
“Yes, that's it, a Hopkins & Allen in thirty-two caliber. He said to fill the sack or he'd scatter my brains.”
“Oh, Miz Kerrigan, you must have been terrified,” Martin said.
Kate shook her head.
“Miles, you've known me how long? Thirty years? You should remember by now I don't scare easily.” She frowned. “And for God's sake, call me Kate. You never called me anything else until I got this big house and eight hundred thousand acres of range to go with it.”
Now it was the lawman's turn to smile.
“Kate it is, and you're right, you never did scare worth a damn, beggin' your pardon.”
“I also used to cuss, Miles, before I became a lady.”
“You were always a lady, Kate. Even when all you had to your name was a cabin and a milk cow and a passel of young 'uns.”
Kate nodded.
“Hard times in Texas back in those days after the war.”
“We'll wind it up,” Martin said. “It's growing late and I'm only going through the motions anyhow.”
“The fact remains that I killed a man tonight, Miles. It's your duty to hear me out.”
Kate rose, poured more brandy from the decanter into the lawman's glass and then her own.
She sat by the fire again and said, “When the man pointed the gun at me, I took off my necklace and bracelets and dropped them in the sack. He wanted my wedding ring, but I refused. When he looked at it and saw it was but a cheap silver band, he demanded the expensive stuff.
“I told him I kept my jewelry in my bedroom and he told me to take him there. He also made an extremely crude suggestion and vowed he'd have his way with me.”
“The damned rogue,” Martin said, his mustache bristling.
“In my day I've heard worse than that, but right then I knew I was in real danger.”
Kate's elegant fingers strayed to the simple cross that now hung around her neck.
“There's not much left to tell, Miles. I played the petrified, hysterical matron to perfection and when we went upstairs I told the robber that my jewels were in my dresser drawer.”
Kate smiled.
“How often men are undone by their lusts. The wretch was so intent on unbuttoning the back of my dress that he didn't see me reach into the dresser drawer and produce—not diamonds—but my old Colt forty-four.”
“Bravo!” Martin said, lifting his booted feet off the rug and clicking his heels.
“I wrenched away from him, leveled my revolver, and ordered him to drop his gun. His face twisted into a most demonic mask and he cursed and raised his gun.”
“The murderous rogue!” Martin said.
“I fired,” Kate said. “John Wesley Hardin once told me to belly shoot a man and I'd drop him in his tracks. I followed Wes's advice—the only bit of good advice he ever gave me or mine—and hit the bandit where a respectable man's watch fob would have been.”
“But he got off a shot,” Martin said. He reached into his pocket again and held up the spent .32. “Dug it out of your bedroom wall.”
“Yes, he got off a shot, but he was already a dead man. He dropped to the floor, groaned for a few moments, and then all the life in him left.”
“Kate, you've been through a terrible ordeal,” Martin said.
“I've been through it before, Miles. The man who came here was intent on raping and robbing me. I fight to keep what is mine, whether it's a diamond ring or a single head of cattle. I've hanged rustlers and other men who would threaten Ciarogan, and as God as my witness I'll do it again if I have to.”
Sheriff Martin's eyes revealed that he believed every word Kate had just said.
He'd known some tough, fighting ranchers, but none even came close to Kate Kerrigan's grit and determination.
She'd built an empire, then held it against all comers, an amazon in petticoats.
Martin built a cigarette and without looking up from the makings, he spoke.
“His name was Frank Ross. He'd served five years of a life sentence in Huntsville for murder and rape when he killed a guard and escaped. He later murdered a farmer and his wife near Leesville and stole three dollars and a horse.”
Martin lit his cigarette.
“Then he came here.”
“Miles, why didn't you tell me all this before?” Kate said.
“After what you've gone through, I didn't want to alarm you.”
Martin read the question on the woman's face and shrank from the green fire in her eyes. She had an Irish temper, did Kate Kerrigan, and the sheriff wanted no part of it.
“I got a wire a couple of days ago from the Leesburg marshal and he warned that Ross could come this way,” he said. “I never thought it could happen the way it did.”
“It did happen,” Kate said.
“Yes, Kate, I know, and I'm sorry.”
Martin rose to his feet.
“I'll be going now. One of my deputies took the body away. You should know that. I'll see myself out.”
The big lawman stepped to the door, his spurs chiming.
He stopped and said, “My respects to your fine family.”
“And mine to Mrs. Martin.”
Martin nodded.
“I'll be sure to tell her that.”
 
 
Kate Kerrigan had defended herself and her honor, just another battle to stand alongside all the others that had gone before.
But the killing of Frank Ross hung heavy on her, and she felt the need for closeness, to hold something her husband, dead so many years, had touched.
All she had was the ring on her finger . . . and the letter that had begun it all.
Kate walked to her office, unlocked the writing bureau, and took the worn, yellowed scrap of paper from a drawer.
She returned to the parlor, poured herself brandy, and sat again by the ashy fire.
After a while, she opened the letter and read it again for perhaps the thousandth time . . . the letter that had founded a dynasty.

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