Read Forty-Four Caliber Justice Online
Authors: Donald L. Robertson
The little man’s head turned from the sheriff to Clay, back and forth. He was loosing control of his body. His eyes had dilated and were as wide as an owls. A thin stream of drool slipped from the right side of his mouth and slowly made its way down his chin. His whole body was vibrating like a tuning fork. His hands came up to his face. He wiped the drool from his chin.
Clay watched the man disintegrate in front of his eyes. He had never seen anything like this in his short life.
How could such a weak, miserable excuse of a man cause the death of my family?
He felt no anger, no rage, only disgust. He felt unclean just being in this man’s presence.
The shell of a man turned to Clay. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for your mother to get killed. I really didn’t. They were supposed to kill your pa and leave. I didn’t tell them to hurt your mother.”
“You piece of trash,” Clay said. He shook his head. “You did this and you didn’t know. You didn’t know you could never have the ranch.” Clay reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the paper that had been in his pa’s safe with the money. “You’d never have gotten our ranch. When my grandpa gave the land grant to Pa, he put a clause in the contract that he couldn’t sell the ranch. He also set it up so that if all of the family died, it would revert back to Grandpa, if he was still alive, and he is. It would never have been yours.” Clay, like his pa, never raised his voice, but now he leaned down till his face was inches from Houston’s and yelled, “You killed them for nothing!”
The man was trying to read the contract. Clay reached down and yanked it out of his hand. He turned to the sheriff. “I’m done, Sheriff. I can’t stand to be around him. My only question is, what will happen to the bank? A lot of folks have money in it, including me.”
“Don’t worry about it, Clay. The Grahams have been trying to buy Houston out for over a year. They’ll jump at the chance. We couldn’t ask for better folks to be running the bank.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. Mr. and Mrs. Graham are folks I’d trust with my life. In that case, I’m headin’ home.”
“I’ll take care of it, Son. Rest assured, the bank will be fine, and this sorry excuse for a man will hang.”
Clay closed the door and headed down the stairs, two at a time. He could hear Houston sobbing behind him. This job was done. He turned to the livery.
Ten minutes later he was mounted on Blue, the sorrel and the buckskin trailing behind. Clay rode north out of Uvalde. The warm morning sun felt good. It melted the fatigue and worry from his young mind and body. The farther away from the banker he got, the cleaner he felt, lighter.
The hill country rose in front of him. In his mind he could hear the swift, cold, rushing water of the Frio. He’d be home soon. Mr. Hewitt wouldn’t mind him staying at the homeplace for a while. Now was the time to rest up and get his strength back. He’d make markers for his folks and Slim, and visit his grandparents. There were decisions to make. Would he go to school to become a lawyer, like Ma and Pa wanted? Or would he take Major Jones up on his offer and join the Rangers? He could even become a bounty hunter. That paid pretty well, and put the criminals behind bars.
What about Lynn, or even Diana? Maybe those chapters were closed—maybe not. All thoughts, all possibilities. For now, decisions could wait until later. He nudged Blue to pick up the pace.
I made you a promise Ma, and like you and Pa taught me, I kept my
word.
AUTHOR
’
S NOTE
Thank you for
reading
Forty-Four Caliber Justice.
If you enjoyed this book, you
’
ll enjoy the Western Novel,
Logan’s Word
.
It is available in both ebook and paperback on Amazon.
If you could take just a moment and leave a review, it would be greatly appreciated. Your review is critical to the success of this book, and I can assure you that I read every review.
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[email protected]
, or fill out the contact form at the website below.
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“Happy trails to you, until we meet again.”
If you would like to read a sample of
Logan's Word
, please turn the page.
Sample of
LOGAN’S WORD
PROLOGUE
October 19, 1864
YOUNG LIEUTENANT RORY Nance lay dying in the fertile Shenandoah Valley. Moments before he had sat astride his cavalry mount, a striking figure—Lieutenant in the United States Cavalry. Now he looked up at men and horses of the Sixth Michigan Volunteer Cavalry as they milled about him. The river valley breeze cleared the air and pushed the stinging smell of gun smoke and blood from the battle scene. Dead and dying men, both blue and gray, and horses littered the normally tranquil forest floor with the carnage of war.
His best friend and troop commander, Captain Josh Logan, Logan’s tall body and wide shoulders weak from loss of blood, lifted Rory and lay him against the saddle of his dead horse. “You saved my life, Rory,” Josh said as he kneeled alongside his friend.
“That almost makes us even,” Rory whispered and grinned up at Josh, his even white teeth stained with blood. He gripped Josh’s hand, and his eyes squeezed tight from pain. “That Rebel Captain did me in, Josh. I think he surely did. Did I get him?”
Josh looked down on his good friend. “You got him, Rory.” They had survived this war together. Now, as the end was nearing, he was watching his friend’s life leak out onto the earth. “Rory, I’ve been almighty proud to be your friend.”
Rory looked up. “Josh, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“This war is almost over, and you’re planning to head out and start your horse ranch in Colorado. Could you make a detour to Texas for me? I know it’s out of your way, but my folks would feel some better hearing about this from you instead of the war department.” A spasm of coughing racked his body and frothy pink blood issued from his mouth and nose.
Josh could hear the sucking sound from the saber wound in Rory’s chest. Josh answered without hesitation, “I give you my word, Rory.”
Rory relaxed, leaned back against the saddle, and smiled. “We’ve had a good run, haven’t we?” He was overcome with another spasm of coughing, and his voice grew weaker. “Thanks, Josh. Now … I’d like to rest.” Rory’s grip on Major Joshua Logan’s hand gradually relaxed. He took two more shallow breaths, and the hope of Texas Ranger Bill Nance and the big brother of Mary Louise Nance died in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley.
Josh continued to grip Rory’s hand. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Captain Sir, Lieutenant Nance is dead, for sure,” Sergeant Pat O’Reilly said. “’Tis a sad thing, his dying. But you need to see to yourself. Your leg and your side are bleeding. It’s now that we must attend to you.”
“Alright, Sergeant,” Josh said as he laid next to Rory, bracing his back against the dead horse.
“Did I hear you give your word you’ll go to Texas?”
“Yes you did, Pat.”
“Sir, if you’re planning to go to Colorado after this fighting is finished, that’ll be quite a distance out of your way.”
“Makes no difference, Pat. I gave my word to Rory, and I aim to keep it.”
CHAPTER ONE
August 25, 1867
JOSHUA MATTHEW LOGAN reined the big gray Morgan to a stop, removed his U.S. Cavalry hat, pushed back the black hair that had fallen into his eyes, and wiped sweat from his wide forehead. The scar across his forehead was becoming less pronounced as time passed. He’d been fortunate his opponent was dying when he made this last slash with the saber, otherwise Josh would have remained on the battlefield permanently. Below his pronounced cheekbones, where his hat offered less protection, his face was baked the color of a dry creek bed, the crevices filled with miles of Texas dust.
Slapping the hat back on his head, he kicked his right foot out of the stirrup, swung his long leg over the saddle, and, with a grace not usually seen in such a big man, stepped softly to the ground.
He pulled the water bag from the saddle and walked over to the shade, if you could call it shade, of a big mesquite tree. Shadows were starting to lengthen as the day was drawing to a close. He’d have to make camp soon. The big gray followed, pushing at the water bag.
“Chancy,” he said, as he rubbed the gray between the ears, “we’ve been together too long. I’m talking to you and you’re bossing me. Now somehow that just don’t seem right.”
He slowly poured water into his hat and let the horse drink.
“That’s enough for now,” Josh said.
He took a small sip from the water bag, hung it over the worn saddle, and reached inside his saddle bags. He pulled out some beef jerky and a few oats for the gray. Josh closed the saddle bags and eased his rifle, a .44 caliber 1866 Winchester Yellow Boy, from its scabbard and walked slowly back to the tree.
The rifle had been a gift from a grateful gentleman, Mr. Nelson King. Josh wasn’t of a mind to take the Winchester, as much as he liked it, but Mr. King wouldn’t accept his refusal. So here he was, with the very best lever action rifle the world had ever seen.
He gave the oats to his horse, squatted and leaned against the trunk of the tree, careful not to be jabbed by its dagger-like thorns. Josh laid the Winchester next to him, in easy reach should he need it quickly. Texas, in 1867, was only as safe as a man was careful.
Chewing slowly on the beef jerky, he shifted the Colt revolver hanging by his left hip into a more comfortable position and contemplated Chancy.
He and Chancy had seen the bear together. Josh had been there with all of the Logan clan, Pa, Ma, and his brothers and sister, when the horse had been born out of solid Morgan stock. That had been eight long years ago. He had been seventeen, almost three years before the war started. Even then people were talking about independence and secession, and how folks in Tennessee had better get ready to stand up for their beliefs.
The gray’s ears twisted forward, his gaze riveted on the western end of the mesquite thicket. Josh quietly reached for his rifle, stood and moved to his right, keeping the big tree between him and possible trouble.
Two riders were walking their horses slowly through the trees. He stepped out from behind the mesquite. His movement gave away his position, and for the first time the two riders saw him and his horse. They stopped, then turned and rode slowly toward him.
“Howdy,” the smaller of the two men said. His twinkling eyes quickly sized up Josh and his horse. “Nice horse.”
“He’ll do,” Josh replied. His rifle was draped casually in the crook of his right arm. It could be brought to bear instantly.
“You seem a mite cautious with that rifle, mister,” the other man said. He was the bigger of the two riders, broad-shouldered and husky, with forearms jutting out of his rolled up, dirty shirt sleeves like fence posts.
Josh smiled icily. “Where I come from, if you’re not a mite cautious, you could be a mite dead.”
“Where do you come from?” the smaller man asked.
“Well, I might be more apt to speak of it if I knew who I was speaking to.”
Twinkling eyes glanced at his partner, then back at Josh. He seemed to make up his mind, then grinned. “We ride for the Circle W. I’m Scott Penny and this house-on-a-horse is Bull Westin. Bull’s not much of a talker; guess I make up for both of us.
“We’ve been trailing some strays. Been some Indian activity hereabouts, and we mean to work those cattle closer to the ranch. Indians do like a young heifer or two if they’re easy to come by.
“In fact, we were planning on making camp just a ways from here. It’s getting late and we need to be moving on. You’re welcome to join us if you like. Those Indians prefer easy pickins, if you know what I mean.”
Josh considered for a moment. Spending another night alone on the Texas prairie didn’t bother him, even with the threat of Indians. He’d spent many a night alone in a dry camp over the past few years, but if he went with them, it would give him a chance to find out where this Circle W outfit was and maybe locate the Rocking N.
“My name’s Logan, boys, Josh Logan, and I’d be much obliged for some company tonight. All the conversation I’ve had here lately has been with my horse. Course, that’s not all bad. He don’t talk back.”
Josh Logan slid the Winchester Yellow Boy back into the scabbard and swung up into the saddle. He looked at Bull and said, “Reckon I’ve been traveling by myself so long that I might be getting just a mite cautious.”
Bull looked sullenly at Josh for a moment before jerking his horse around into a walk. “It happens,” he said gruffly.
There would be a full moon tonight, Josh noticed. The pale white orb rose early above the Texas prairie, looking balefully upon the three riders as they slowly followed the cattle trail. This was going to be a real Comanche moon tonight, bright enough to ride pall-mall across the prairie, without fear of unseen gopher holes lying in wait to break a horse’s leg or a man’s neck, bright enough to take a white man’s cattle, bright enough to take a white man’s scalp.
“You’re not from these parts,” Scott Penny observed as they neared a small creek.
It was already getting dark under the thick canopy of pecan trees. The moonlight could hardly penetrate the overhead foliage.
“Nope,” Josh replied as he examined the shadows beneath the trees. This was Pecan Bayou, he thought. His friend Rory Nance had spoken many times, during the war, of hunting along the Pecan and the Jim Ned. Jim Ned Creek should be another seven or eight miles west.