Town Tamers Page 6

  Most of the townspeople avoided him, as they’d done before. But more than a few nodded in greeting and several smiled. One man actually said, “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Delaware.” It surprised Asa so much, he almost forgot to respond, “Afternoon to you.”

  On an impulse Asa went into the Whiskey Mill. Byron was behind the bar and Noona was joshing with some men at a table. Both glanced his way, and then ignored him as they were supposed to do.

  Asa crossed to the bar and when Byron came over, said, “Whiskey.”

  Byron made no attempt to hide his surprise. “A little early in the day, isn’t it?”

  “I’m celebrating,” Asa said.

  “You’ve heard that your son is going off on his own and you’re happy for him?” Byron baited as he poured.

  “No,” Asa said. “I’m celebrating lasting as long as I have.”

  “Lucky you,” Byron said.

  Just then the batwings creaked and in strode a pair of Circle K hands. Asa recognized them from the descriptions he’d been given. They were Old Tom and Tyree Lucas. He sipped and let them come to the bar. At close range he could sometimes down two birds with one stone, as it were. “Gents,” he said when they looked at him.

  “Town Tamer,” Tyree Lucas said. His scorn was as obvious as his sneer.

  Old Tom had more sense. “Mr. Delaware,” he said.

  “Surprised to see you here,” Asa said.

  “What in hell for?” Tyree Lucas said. “It’s a free country.”

  “Freer for some than for others,” Asa said.

  “We don’t want no trouble,” Old Tom said. “I’m hankerin’ after some coffin varnish, is all, and Tyree, here, tagged along.”

  “We hear it takes two days to make up your mind,” Tyree Lucas said.

  “Tyree, don’t,” Old Tom said.

  “That’s all right,” Asa said. “I’ve already made it up.”

  Old Tom cocked his head. “Awful quick.”

  “It was made up before Knox asked me.”

  Old Tom lowered his arm so his hand was near his revolver. “So that’s how it is.”

  “How what is?” Tryee Lucas asked. To Asa he said, “Why in hell did you ask for two days if you already knew what you’d say?”

  “To do some whittling,” Asa said.

  “Hold on, now,” Old Tom said.

  “My grandpappy liked to whittle,” Tyree Lucas said. “He’d sit in his rocking chair for hours, just whittlin’ away. Carved me a horse when I was little. Not a bad horse, either, except he forgot the tail.”

  Without taking his eyes off Asa, Old Tom said, “That’s not the kind of whittlin’ he’s talkin’ about, you jug head. He’s talkin’ about whittlin’ on us.”

  “We’re not made of wood,” Tyree Lucas said.

  “You might as well be,” Asa said, and took a step back. The Winchester was in his right hand, pointed down.

  “Why us?” Old Tom asked.

  “Have to start somewhere,” Asa said. “The more now, the fewer Knox can send when he realizes I was stringing him along.”

  “Bull Cumberland, you mean,” Old Tom said.

  “I mean Weldon Knox.”

  “So much for his great brain,” Old Tom said. “Bull told him it wouldn’t work.”

  Tyree Lucas was growing more exasperated by the moment. “Will one of you tell me what this whittlin’ and stringin’ is about?”

  “It’s about gophers,” Asa said.

  “You’re loco,” Tyree Lucas declared.

  “When a man has gophers, he can sit in a chair and wait for one to poke its head out of its hole so he can blow it off. Or he can cover all their holes except one and smoke them out. Or he can drop castor beans down in their burrows and poison them.”

  “What do gophers have to do with whittlin’?”

  “Whittling can be easy or hard depending on how you go about it.”

  Old Tom did the unexpected. He held his hands out from his sides. “I refuse to draw on you. I refuse to even touch my hardware. You want me dead, it’ll have to be in cold blood, with witnesses.”

  “Bull Cumberland had witnesses when he shot Ed Sykes,” Asa said. “Jake Bass had witnesses when he gunned down Myrtle Sykes.”

  “They’ve told you about that?” Old Tom took a slow step toward the batwings. “But that’s Bull and Jake, and you’re not them. You have to abide by the law.”

  “Who says?”

  “You tame towns for a livin’. You can’t do that by goin’ against the law.”

  “Who says?” Asa asked a second time.

  “You’re supposed to be on the side of law and order.”

  “The only side I’m on,” Asa said, “is mine.”

  Byron laughed. “Imagine that.”

  Asa had forgotten he was standing behind the bar. “You might want to move.”

  “No one has explained this to me yet,” Tyree Lucas said.

  “The Town Tamer, here,” Byron said, “is fixing to shoot the two of you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s what he does.”

  “You’re serious, boy?” Tyree said.

  “I am,” Byron said, and nodded at Asa. “And so is he.”

  18

  Experience had taught Asa that Tyree Lucas would be the one to throw common sense to the wind and he was right.

  Lucas swore and clawed for his six-gun. He was fast, although not as fast as some Asa had gone up against.

  Unfortunately for him, all Asa had to do was whip the Winchester’s muzzle up and cut loose. He fired one-handed. Where the recoil might have torn the shotgun from the hand of most men, it didn’t with him. He practiced firing one-handed every chance he got, and knew to hold firm and to move his arm with the force of the recoil.

  It caught Tyree Lucas square in the chest. The impact lifted him off his boots and flung him a good five feet. He crashed down on his back with blood squirting from some of the holes the buckshot had made. He’d never cleared leather, and his limp fingers waved wildly while his mouth opened and closed as he gurgled blood.

  Old Tom had his hands in the air and was gaping at his pard. “No,” he bleated.

  Asa jacked the lever, feeding another shell into the chamber, and pointed the Winchester at him.

  Tyree Lucas tried to speak. His words consisted of bubbles of blood, but the look in his eyes was meaning enough. Then he thrust his legs out, convulsed, and was gone.

  Old Tom swallowed and regarded Asa and the shotgun. “Hold on, now. I ain’t goin’ for my smoke wagon. My hands are empty, as everyone here can plainly see.”

  “Doesn’t matter to him,” Byron said.

  “Byron, please,” Noona said from somewhere slightly behind Asa.

  “How is it you know him so well?” Old Tom asked Byron.

  “He’s been my nightmare since I realized snuffing wicks isn’t a profession—it’s vengeance.”

  “You dream about him?” Old Tom said in confusion.

  “Not if I can help it,” Byron said.

  Old Tom seemed to think that by talking to Byron he could somehow keep Asa from shooting. He said, “Explain that to me, if you would.”

  Byron pointed. “He’s my pa.” Again he used the exaggerated, hill-folk way of saying it.

  Old Tom’s eyes widened. “Wait until the others hear this.”

  “They won’t hear it from you,” Asa said. By then he had tucked the stock to his shoulder and he shot the old outlaw full in the face.

  Anyone who had ever shot melons with a shotgun could have predicted what would happen. Old Tom’s head exploded in a shower of bits and chunks and larger pieces including one with an eye and half of Old Tom’s nose. Deprived of its brain, the body swayed and the fingers twitched, and it melted into a heap.

  Someone somewh
ere gasped out, “God Almighty.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Byron said.

  “I did once you told him,” Asa said.

  “Don’t blame it on me.”

  “Who said anything about blame? When you exterminate vermin, you don’t feel sorry for it.” Asa worked the lever and turned to the stunned onlookers. None acted disposed to object to the killings. To make sure they understood, he said, “These men and their friends murdered Ed Sykes and his wife. They murdered your marshal. They’ve robbed and rustled.”

  “You don’t need to tell us, mister,” said a man holding a cigar. “We live here.”

  “You did right,” said another.

  “Listen to them,” Byron said. “Maybe they’ll erect a statue in your honor when it’s over.”

  “Byron,” Noona said.

  “It’s come to this, has it, son?” Asa said. “Very well.” He wasn’t angry at Byron, just disappointed. “From here on out we stick together.”

  The batwings slammed open, and in rushed George Tandy. He lurched to a stop in horror at the sight of the bodies. “I was down the street and heard shots.”

  “Half the town must have heard them,” another man said.

  Tandy coughed, collected himself, and advanced a few halfhearted steps. “What a mess.”

  “Have some of these men tie what’s left of them on their horses,” Asa instructed. “Then point the animals at the Circle K and slap them on the rump.”

  “You killed them,” Tandy said. “You should do it.”

  “Hear, hear,” Byron said.

  “Until this is over, this shotgun doesn’t leave my hands,” Asa said.

  “Not even in the outhouse?” Byron taunted.

  “Byron, consarn you,” Noona said.

  George Tandy was shaking his head. “We send those bodies back, it’ll make Bull Cumberland mad as hell. He’s liable to swoop in here with his whole bunch to wipe you out.”

  “That’s the idea,” Asa said.

  19

  Ludlow was abuzz. Word of the killings had spread like a prairie fire.

  As Asa, Byron, and Noona made their way to the boardinghouse, people pointed and whispered.

  “Must make you feel important,” Byron said.

  Noona made a hissing sound. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? Why won’t you let it drop?”

  “Because I’m sick to death of it, sis. Not just a little bit, but to the very depths of my heart and my soul.”

  “You even talk poetical,” Asa said.

  Byron stopped and his jaw jutted like an anvil. “I’ve put up with a lot, but no more of that. You leave my poetry alone.”

  “It’s never bothered you this much before,” Noona said to Byron.

  “There comes a point when you have to say enough is enough.”

  “I say it in every town I tame,” Asa said.

  “Oh really? Is that how you justify it?”

  “I told you in the saloon,” Asa said. “You don’t have to justify doing right.”

  “I am so sick of you.”

  “Byron!” Noona exclaimed.

  Asa walked on and they followed, but Byron dragged his heels.

  Ethel was outside her boardinghouse, her knitting needles and the shawl she was working on in her hands. “Those were shots I heard.”

  “They were,” Asa said.

  “Was it you?”

  “It was.”

  “How many?”

  “Just two to start.”

  “Good,” Ethel said.

  “Brotherly love,” Byron said, “where art thou?”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Ethel asked. “Is he one of those weak-sister kind of Christians?”

  “He’s a poet,” Asa said.

  “Ah,” Ethel said.

  “Someone shoot me,” Byron said.

  Asa held it in until they were in his room and he’d closed the door. Forcing himself to keep his voice calm, he said, “Not another carp out of you when we’re in public.” Byron opened his mouth, but Asa held up a hand. “Families should air their differences in private, boy.”

  “Another of your rules?” Byron said.

  “Without rules, we’d treat each other the same as animals do.”

  “That applies to laws, too,” Byron said. “And what you just did is against the law, to say nothing of hardly being civilized. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ remember?”

  “Since when did you start quoting the Bible? All you ever quote is that dandy with a limp.”

  “What a way to describe a man of Lord Byron’s genius.”

  “How would you describe him?”

  “As he described himself,” Byron said. “As a degenerate modern wretch.”

  “Degenerate,” Asa said. “And you admire him?”

  “More than I admire you.”

  “No insults,” Noona said.

  “Go to your rooms and fetch your things,” Asa said. “We’re staying together until this is over.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Byron said.

  “Not in the state you’re in,” Asa said.

  “And what state would that be, Father? The state of disillusion brought on by my sire?”

  Asa opened the door and moved aside. “Don’t dawdle. There might be more of them in town.”

  Byron stalked out, his fists clenched.

  “My poor brother,” Noona said softly. She stopped and touched Asa’s hand. “I’m sorry he’s treating you this way.”

  “It’s him doing it, not you.”

  “He does care for you, you know.”

  “I wonder.”

  “He’s always been the smartest of us.”

  “Too smart,” Asa said.

  “Do you remember when he first heard there was a poet who had his name, how excited he was when you bought him his first book on Lord Byron?”

  “I thought I was doing him a favor,” Asa said.

  “You did. He loved that book more than anything and went out and got everything he could find on Lord Byron.”

  “Look at where it’s brought us.”

  “You should be proud. How many fathers can say they have a son with the heart of a poet?”

  Asa adored her for trying to smooth things over, but there was too much at stake. “He’s gone soft. Too soft. If I could I’d put him on the next stage east, like he wants. As it is, I don’t know as I want him backing me when the Circle K rides in.”

  “He’ll do what needs doing. You can count on him for that.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Asa said. “If you’re not, all of us could be goners.”

  Part Three

  20

  Weldon Knox liked his brandy. He always had one exactly at noon and once an hour thereafter until he retired. His wife didn’t like it, but she knew better than to complain. The only time she had, he’d slapped her from the parlor to the kitchen and back again, with her caterwauling for him to stop. He liked the feeling it gave him, liked the power he had over her, liked the fear he inspired.

  Weldon hadn’t inspired much fear in anyone when he was growing up. Fate had dealt him a cruel blow in that he was so short. It’s hard to inspire fear when you’re no taller than a heifer. You have to be muscular, or tough, and Weldon was neither.

  But he did like inspiring fear.

  Which was partly why when he took a wife, he made sure she was shorter than he was. Esther fit the bill, and was frail, to boot, so he could smack her around to his heart’s content and she couldn’t do a thing.

  Esther didn’t like it when he brought in Bull Cumberland, either, but she kept her mouth shut except to mention that she couldn’t understand why he’d hired “a man like that.”

  Weldon chuckled at the memory. The silly woman didn�
�t see that Bull and him were the same. They both liked doing as they damn well pleased. They both liked making money any way they could. And they both liked hurting people.

  But then, how was Esther to know? When they met, he’d fed her a cock-and-bull story about being from back east and raised religious and impressed her as being a gentleman in all his ways.

  She’d be shocked, Weldon reckoned, if she learned he was Texas born and bred. That he’d lived on a small ranch over San Antonio way until his father died and left him the place. For most that would suffice, but Weldon always hankered after a bigger spread, a ranch with thousands upon thousands of acres, his very own empire that he could rule with an iron fist. One day he’d heard that the Circle K was up for sale and sold the ranch his pa had sweated and near broken his back to build up for the down payment.

  Esther never suspected the rest of it, either. That he’d been running rustled stock on the sly for years. That he let wanted men hide out at his place—for a price. That for all his seeming respectability, he was as much a cutthroat as the worst of them.

  And a far better actor.

  It had amused him, riding into town and duping the famous Asa Delaware. It rankled a bit, though, treating the breed as if he mattered. He despised mixed-bloods almost as much as he despised redskins.

  Still, things had gone “swimmingly,” as a Brit he knew might say. He sipped his brandy, gazed out the big parlor window over his domain, and was content.

  Then someone pounded on the front door, and Weldon yelled for Esther to answer it. Presently boots clomped, spurs jangled, and in strode Bull Cumberland with a frown as deep as the Grand Canyon.

  “That damn jaguar has been at our cattle again?” Weldon guessed. Jaguars were rare this far north, but a big male had taken to filling its belly with Circle K cows.

  “Old Tom and Tyree Lucas are back,” Bull Cumberland said.

  “This early?” Weldon said. The sun wouldn’t set for an hour yet. They had the night off, and he wouldn’t have expected them until past midnight.