Christmas in the Lone Star State Read online

  Sayles was in the saddle by the time Lute hit the ground. Fighting on horseback seemed the most natural thing to him. Like most Rangers, the vast majority of his fighting had been done against Comanches, who shied away from standing their ground and blasting it out with their enemies. They fought on the move, and the Rangers had adapted. Most had trouble hitting their mark when astride a horse on the move, but Sayles and his kind excelled at it. Reining the dun around and kicking it into motion, once again heading straight for the enemy, he locked his horse-warped legs tight around the dun’s barrel while he levered another round into the Winchester’s chamber. Less than a hundred yards separated him from his prey now. He set stock to shoulder, took aim at the second man, who was dismounting, and squeezed the trigger.

  Mal had checked and turned the horse and was leaping out of the saddle when he heard a loud crack! as the Ranger’s bullet went right past his head, a sound that triggered a reflex and made him hurl himself down into the snow beside his brother. He pulled the Gasser revolver from his coat and crawled closer to Lute. Reaching out, he clutched his brother’s arm, shaking it, calling out his name. Lute was unmoving, though. His body limp. Mal didn’t want to believe that Lute was dead. He got up on his knees and grabbed the corpse, shaking it, trying to force some sort of response, hoping against hope and all reason. Then a bullet slammed into him, high on his left side, just missing the collarbone. He heard that crack! again when he was thrown violently back into the snow.

  Cursing under his breath, Sayles reined in the dun and threw a leg over the pommel to make a running dismount. He had missed his mark not once but twice, and that boiled his water. Both shots had been meant to strike the second man dead center. It was something he could not fathom. Once he had his feet under him he gave the dun a whack on the rump to send it off. If he didn’t, the horse would stand its ground, and it was partly for the horse that he was afoot now. He had a pretty good idea that the man who had been his first target was dead or dying. That meant the dun was suddenly expendable. The other reason was it seemed he was not the crack shot from the hurricane deck of a cayuse that he thought he was. Not much more than fifty yards from the two men, both downed now, he began moving forward in a stiff and ungainly lope, hoping he could get close enough for the killing shot.

  Mal lay there, trying to breathe, staring up at the sky, catching glimpses of blue between the fast-moving clouds. Then the pain hit him, the most excruciating agony he had ever experienced. His body arched, then writhed in the snow, and he snarled like a wolf caught in a trap. But a sudden burst of rage trumped the breathtaking pain. It was that rage that made it possible, just then, for him to sit up. He couldn’t seem to make his left arm work, but the right was just fine; he raised the pistol and with an incoherent roar of wrath emptied it at the man loping toward him.

  Seeing Mal sit up didn’t surprise Sayles. He knew the second shot had been a little too high. Coming to a stop, he dropped to one knee, Winchester brought to shoulder again.

  Mal fired first—and at this range he couldn’t miss.

  From the other side of the clearing Jake Eddings watched, stunned, as Bill Sayles went down, thrown backward, rifle spinning away as he sprawled in the snow. He fully expected to see Sayles get up and come into view again. But as the seconds passed, the possibility that he was dead was what Eddings had to confront. He rejected that possibility at first, because it seemed impossible that anything but old age could take the Ranger. A cold and painful knot in the pit of his stomach, he tore his gaze away from the downed man and looked at the spot along the far tree line where he had last seen the two men they had been after. He saw a mound of dark clothing, but neither one was standing. Their horse, tossing its head, was loping out into the clearing, away from all the gunfire. The coyote dun was circling around to return to Sayles. Eddings wondered then if all the others were dead. A silence broken only by the whisper of the wind in the treetops reigned for a moment, and in that moment it occurred to him that he could be free. That realization was as phenomenal as seeing Bill Sayles go down and not get up.

  Eddings had climbed down off the bay the minute Sayles charged out into the open and now, even while his disheveled mind tried to cope with what had just transpired, he put foot to stirrup and swung back into the saddle. He was free. Free to go anywhere he wanted. Free to get as far away from the prison at Huntsville as it was possible for a man to get. Free from that dank, claustrophobic cell, the thankless labor, the minute-by-minute, soul-killing hopelessness and humiliation of being a convict. He could ride westward and lose himself in the vast, untamed land that stretched for many hundreds of miles between the spot where he now was and the Pacific Ocean. But just as quickly as he became aware of these breathtaking possibilities he realized that he couldn’t do it. Because doing it would mean never again seeing the woman he loved. Precisely because he loved her, he couldn’t subject her to a life on the run. He would have to leave her behind if he wanted to be a free man today.

  His next thought was to fade back into the trees, telling himself he couldn’t very well face an armed man without a weapon—especially the man who had gunned down Bill Sayles. He decided not to contemplate whether he would do so even if he did have a gun. But his conscience got the better of him. Had he not prodded the Ranger into coming after these men? Was he not responsible for what had just happened out there in the clearing? The answers were yes—and yes. And he was just going to run away? That answer was no.

  “God help me,” he whispered and kicked the bay into motion, emerging from the trees and heading straight for Sayles. He didn’t cotton to making himself such a big target by breaking cover on the back of a horse so he tried to make himself a smaller one by bending over until the bay’s mane was whipping his face. He wasn’t sure that either of the men they had been chasing was dead, but that dark spot in the white snow at the edge of the trees yonder didn’t move. Still, he kept his eyes glued on it.

  As soon as he saw Sayles go down, Mal laid the empty Gasser in the snow and managed to roll Lute over, even though the effort caused him immense pain. He sat there in the blood-speckled snow, cradling his dead brother in his arms. That the man who had killed Lute was himself dead did little to console him. For nearly all his days his purpose had been to look out for Lute. Now he felt empty. Lost. He knew then that he could not have left Lute behind at the sheepherder’s. Taking care of his troublesome brother had given purpose to his life. And now that had been taken from him. Rocking slowly, he groaned, and not from the physical pain. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry.” He raised his head to look for the man who had killed his brother, who lay out there sprawled in the snow. That was when he saw another man, riding across the clearing from the far line of trees.

  He grabbed up the Gasser, digging into the pocket of his peacoat, seeking the extra rounds he kept there. His fingers brushed the worn leather cover of the dog-eared Edinburgh Edition of the Reliques of Robert Burns. “When from my mother’s womb I fell, / Thou might have plunged me deep in hell,” he hissed through teeth clenched in pain. It usually made him feel better to quote from “Holy Willie’s Prayer.” But not this time. He tried to reload the revolver. His fingers were numb, whether from the cold—it had never been as cold as it was at that moment—or the breathtaking pain or loss of blood, he wasn’t sure. He dropped a couple of rounds in the snow as he fumbled with the Gasser then threw it down in disgust and groped under Lute’s jacket until he found the Colt pistol taken from the lawman his brother had killed on the Mustang. He couldn’t recall how many shots Lute had fired at the sheep, so he checked. One bullet. One was enough. By pure force of will more than anything else he managed to get to his feet.

  Eddings saw the black mound move, take shape as a man getting slowly, unsteadily, to his feet—a man with a pistol in his hand, a pistol he was raising. The fear was like an invisible fist squeezing his heart and shoving it into his throat. At the same time, he achieved a sudden clarity that incorporated time and distance in relation to a spe
cific object—the Ranger’s Winchester, in the snow about ten feet from where Sayles lay. But Sayles wasn’t just lying there anymore. Astonished, Eddings saw that the Ranger, who had been sprawled on his back, was rolling over. The bay was running flat-out, and Eddings had no more time for thinking. He sawed on the reins, checking the horse; the bay locked its forelegs and nearly sat down in a spray of snow. Eddings tried to dismount too quickly and got his boot caught in the stirrup. He sprawled, pushed back up onto his feet, and saw the Winchester within reach. Beyond the rifle was Sayles, pulling the Schofield out of his coat pocket, but doing it slowly, too slowly, like even this was almost too much effort for him. Just staying upright seemed to be all he could manage. And yet he still had fight in him. Eddings felt a surge of admiration for the man. “Stay down!” he shouted, realizing that in that instant the bay was shielding him from Mal, while Sayles was fully exposed.

  But Sayles would never stay down—and Jake Eddings knew what he had to do. The bay was standing where he had dropped the reins, which was to be expected since it was one of the Ranger’s “god-dogs.” Eddings stepped out from behind the horse, which turned its head and looked at him but didn’t move. This put him twenty feet to the right of Sayles as he brought the Winchester’s stock to shoulder.

  Mal was on his feet now, aiming the pistol at Sayles, the man who had killed his brother. He saw Eddings come out from behind the bay, saw him bring the repeater to his shoulder. Meanwhile, Lute’s killer couldn’t seem to bring his own pistol to bear and was taking it from his right hand with his left. The Gasser, with those extra rounds he had been unable to load, lay in the snow to his left, but might as well have been in China. In the split second he had to make up his mind, Mal decided to use the bullet in the Colt to avenge Lute rather than save himself. He squeezed the trigger, aiming dead center for Sayles. He and Eddings fired in the same instant—and he didn’t live long enough to see Sayles fall.

  Eddings stood there a moment, breathing high and fast, nostrils flaring as the north wind blew acrid gunsmoke back into his face. To his left, Sayles lay on his back, unmoving. Taking the Ranger for dead, Eddings stumbled forward, levering another round into the Winchester’s chamber, keeping the butt tucked into his shoulder as he made his way to Mal Litchfield. Stomach churning, he saw that he had shot the man squarely in the chest. Mal’s eyes were wide open, staring blindly up at the sky, and the look of abject horror on his face made Eddings’s skin crawl. Made him wonder what this man had seen as he stood for one final heartbeat on the brink of eternity.

  Despite the whisper of the wind and the crunch of snow underfoot the clearing seemed eerily quiet after the quick, furious flurry of gunfire. Eddings turned and looked again at the Ranger. The dun had walked over to Sayles and stood there with head lowered. He thought for sure Bill Sayles had to be dead, and he didn’t really want to trudge over there and see it up close, but he did, dropping to one knee beside the body. Sayles had been hit in the thigh and chest, high and to the right. There was a lot of blood. The Schofield revolver was gripped in his left hand. The shadows of night were reaching across the clearing. Eddings glanced to his right and saw a bright light beyond the trees. It was the sun, just setting, painting the shredding clouds above the tree line a rosy pink.

  The coyote dun whickered softly. Eddings sighed, turned his attention to the horse, and saw the Ranger’s left hand, the one clutching the revolver, move just slightly. Then his eyes were opened and he turned his head to look at Eddings. “Is he dead?” His voice was little more than a whispered croak.

  Eddings nodded. “He is. I thought you were too.”

  “I ain’t done yet.” Sayles groaned through clenched teeth as he lifted his head to look at himself. His pant leg was drenched in blood. “But I’m shot to hell. Reckon you need to tie off that leg or I’ll bleed out.”

  The rope that had tied him to the bay for days was now coiled and lashed to the saddle on the dun. Eddings borrowed the bowie knife stuck in the Ranger’s boot and cut off a length of it, which he used as a tourniquet on Sayles’s leg. He didn’t think it would do much good. Even if he stanched the bleeding it seemed unlikely the Ranger would survive for long.

  “Go check the bodies,” said Sayles. His voice was hoarse, weak.

  “I’m not much for looting the dead, unlike some people.”

  “Hurry up.”

  Eddings grimaced, but he wasn’t going to argue with a dying man. He walked to where the Litchfield brothers lay and came back a moment later with the Gasser and the Colt stuck in his belt and two wanted posters clenched in a hand covered with Mal’s blood. He slid the bowie knife back into the Ranger’s boot. “Five hundred pounds apiece. How much is that?”

  “Damned if I know. Hold on to them.” Sayles tried to sit up. It took everything he had to accomplish that feat. He looked up at the saddle on the dun, then at Eddings. “Help me get on my horse.”

  Eddings could only imagine how much it pained Bill Sayles to ask for assistance. Since there was nothing to be gained by arguing, he helped the Ranger to his feet. “How far do you think you can get?”

  “Far as I need to. But you better tie me to the horse. Likely I’ll pass out soon.”

  “Where do I take you?”

  Sayles didn’t answer. Once he had the Ranger in the saddle, Eddings took the rest of the rope and secured him atop the coyote dun in the same manner he had been bound on the bay for most of the past week. By the time he was done he had made up his mind. “The sheepherder’s place. I’ll leave you there and ride back to Cameron to fetch Doc Crighton.” He looked up at Sayles. The Ranger’s head was down. He had passed out. Or he was dead. Eddings sighed and looked around. The sun had set. He could see stars and he figured the moon would be on the rise soon. He got on board the bay, gathered up the dun’s reins, and put the north wind to his back as he kicked the bay into a walk.

  Three Weeks Later

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Mr. Eddings, I suspect you’re nervous, sitting here today, with your life, at least the next thirteen years of it, hanging in the balance. I urge you to relax. Remember, this is a hearing, not a trial. Just tell your side of the story, beginning with your departure from the prison in Huntsville in the custody of the Texas Ranger Bill Sayles.”

  Eddings kept his eyes glued to the smiling face of Temple Hanley, who was standing directly in front of him as he sat in the witness chair, hands in his lap, wrists shackled together courtesy of Sheriff Tom Rath. The chair was beside a battered kneehole desk behind which sat Circuit Judge Jacob Greve—the same judge who had presided over his trial two years earlier. He didn’t look at the crowd of about forty people packed into the small Cameron courtroom, or at the judge either. From what he understood, it was Hanley who had convinced the judge to allow the public into the courtroom for this occasion. In fact, it was Hanley who was responsible for the hearing in the first place, as he had been the one whose telegram to the governor had initiated the process that resulted in him spending three weeks in the city jail instead of being returned immediately to Huntsville. He resented the casual, almost bantering way Hanley addressed him, as though this was all a relatively minor matter. Aside from that, he had no idea what to say. Hanley came to his rescue.

  “You were allowed, by order of the governor, to attend the funeral of your son here in Cameron and arrived here without mishap, isn’t that correct?”

  “Well, yes. Unless you call seeing the Texas Ranger who brought me gun down three men a mishap.”

  “Those three men were bandits, were they not? I would call it a mishap if they had succeeded in holding you up.” Hanley’s glib response elicited some laughter from the onlookers. “Then after the burial of your son, Ranger Sayles set out to deliver you back to prison, and it was then that you crossed the path of the Litchfield brothers.”

  Eddings nodded. “We found a dead man inside a cabin. It was clear he had been killed. Tracks in the snow showed that two men had come to the cabin and left with a woman who lived the
re.”

  “For the record, the woman has been identified as one Alise Graham, a soiled dove who had plied her trade up and down the Brazos River for a few years before she began living with the dead man, an Isaac Smith, hunter by trade. You already knew that two lawmen had been killed on a riverboat a few days before because you overhead a ferryman tell that to Ranger Sayles. So what happened next?”

  “Sayles decided to go after the two men—the Litchfields.”

  “And why did he do that? To try to rescue Miss Graham, who had clearly been kidnapped by the Litchfield brothers?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” Eddings shrugged. “It’s just … what he does.”

  “The next morning you came upon the scene of another crime, did you not?”

  “Yeah. They’d killed a sheepherder. But not his wife. We found the Graham woman dead too. The woman told us that the smaller of the two men had been hurt, and that he’d wanted to take her along but the bigger one wouldn’t allow it. They’d lost one of their mounts, so they weren’t traveling very fast, and we caught up with them that same day.”

  Hanley had been pacing slowly back and forth with his pudgy fingers laced behind his back. Now he stopped and seemed to tilt forward. “Were you armed, Mr. Eddings?”

  “No. Sayles wouldn’t give me a gun. He had untied me, though, so that I could ride and he didn’t have to pull my horse along by a lead rope.”

  “I see. And did the thought of trying to make a run for it, as they say, ever cross your mind?”

  “Sure it did.”

  “But you didn’t make a run for it. Why not?”

  Eddings thought a moment. “One reason is, had I made it to China, Sayles would have tracked me down.” He paused, having a difficult time putting finding the right words to express himself.