Uncertain Hand
David H. Garrett
Published by David Garrett at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 David H. Garrett
Chapter 1
Reb McConnehey’s face registered none of the excitement he now felt as he peered over his cards at the faces of the four dangerous men who just strode through the saloon door. Indeed his luck was finally turning, and not just because of the full house he held in his hand. At twenty-eight, Reb had spent half his life developing his poker face. And it was times like this that it was truly an asset.
Lean and blond, his boyish looks often aided him in both his vocation and his avocation. Gambling was the latter; bounty hunting was the former. Gamblers often mistook him for a novice, and bad men took him for a kid.
Reb tossed in a $20.00 gold piece. “See your five and raise you fifteen.”
He studied the desperados as they found a table near the back wall. Indeed Lady Luck was with him tonight. The bounties on the four outlaws totaled more than $1000 – five hundred on Bob Barger, two-fifty a piece on Rob Reese and Ted Foley, and one hundred Tom Smelley. Of course, collecting the bounties without backup was no cinch. The smart thing to do would be to find the local lawmen and enlist their aid. That would mean sharing the reward, assuming the local law would have the fortitude and experience to make the arrest. Anyway one approached it, it would probably be a messy situation. Barger was a cold blooded killer and the rest of the crew were just as mean. Taking them alive would be difficult if possible at all, and a lot of innocent blood could be spilled in the process.
Two of the three other players at the table folded, and the other, Slim Carter, bumped the pot another five dollars. Reb tossed in five and showed his cards. His Jacks over fours won. He raked in his loot, excused himself, and walked to the bar. He ordered a beer and took a couple of sips, watching the four badmen from the corner of his eye.
His attention shifted when a minute or two later the door opened and a dark haired stranger walked in. He was not a big man – about five seven or eight, Reb judged – but there was something imposing in his demeanor. He wore an ankle length over coat and rough tanned boots with worn steel spurs. There was a cartridge belt visible through the front of the coat, but Reb could not see what was holstered beneath. His brown eyes were alert, showing no sign of fatigue. He appeared to be just another cowboy in for a drink after a day’s work, but somehow Reb suspected there was more to him than met the eye.
The lean stranger bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer, which he sipped gingerly in the same manner as Reb. Reb nodded imperceptibly to no one. Bounty hunter, he thought. Or law man. Probably trailed the Barger bunch here to Dawson. Reb scanned the crowd and looked through the dusty front window. No sign of backup. Surely he didn’t plan on taking them alone. Uh-oh. Trouble.
Rob Reese was staring intently at the stranger at the bar. He leaned over and whispered something to Barger who turned his gaze toward the bar too. The stranger was taking the scene in with the aid of the mirror behind the bar. He put his money on the bar and turned and started to walk casually toward the front door.
“Hey, you! In the coat. You doggin’ us, boy?” Barger barked.
The stranger turned slowly, set his beer on the bar, and responded. “ You talking to me? I just stopped in to cut the dust. Been a long ride. Thought I’d have a beer or three and play some poker before turning in.”
“I saw you back in Spring Hill this morning,” Reese offered. “I think you’re following us around.”
“Texas is a big place. Room for us all.”
Reb unlatched the leather loop from the hammer of his LeMat revolver. The massive old cap and ball revolver was a Civil War relic passed down to him by his Daddy who had served as an officer in the Confederate Army. What it lacked in speed of reloading it made up for in sheer fire power. Its oversized cylinder held nine .42 caliber lead balls. In place of a metal retaining pin found holding most cylinders in place, it had another barrel with an 18 gauge bore. The extra barrel held a load of buckshot. The old gun wouldn’t fit into a conventional holster, so he had one made special. A leather clad spring clip wrapped the cylinder while a small leather cup held the tip of the barrel. When the hammer strap was disengaged, it could be slipped out remarkably quick.
The four outlaws stood up and started spreading out across the room. Reb noticed that the stranger’s right hand was now in his coat pocket. Reb hated to think he was depending on some puny pocket pistol to get him out the developing mess.
“I think you’d be better off if you just got back on your horse and rode out of town,” Reese said.
“I’m not looking for any trouble. I’ll just finish my beer and then I think I’ll turn in.”
Barger chimed in now. “No, I think you’d better leave.”
By now, people were sensing the approaching fire storm and moving out of the way. A few managed to slip through the front and side doors. There was still no sign of any backup for the stranger.
Reb weighed his options. He could move to a safer place to stand and watch the stranger die. He could side with the stranger on principle. The men were vicious killers, and the stranger was obviously outgunned. He could pull his gun and initiate an arrest. Perhaps he and the stranger could agree to share the loot. Or he could end up fighting the stranger for having interfered with his bounty.
The question was suddenly answered for him. As if reading his mind, the stranger turned and spoke.
“You’re Reb McConnehey, aren’t you?” the stranger said facing him now.
“How’d you know that?” he asked.
“Never mind that,” he shrugged. “I figure you and I are after the same thing. Just wanted you to know that I have no problems with sharing.”
There was a rapid movement from the Barger’s direction and a glint of steel flashed as he pulled a double action Colt revolver from its holster. There as a flurry of motion from the other three as well.
Reb drew his LeMat, thumbing back the hammer and letting go with the shotgun barrel. The number two buckshot splattered the chest of Rob Reese who had by now drawn his Remington .45. Reb heard the roar of a shot come from his right and saw Barger go down with a hole in his chest. He caught a glimpse of a barrel sticking out from the stranger’s over coat. Reb thumbed the LeMat again and flipped the lever on the hammer to change barrels. A .42 caliber ball caught Smelley in the belly, and the falling man fired round in Reb’s direction. A second ball from the LeMat found its home in Smelley’s face, spraying blood and gray matter out the back of his head.
The stranger fired two more quick rounds taking down Ted Foley just as a forty-four slug from his Foley’s Colt Pacemaker whizzed by his left ear. The whole exchange took less than ten seconds.
The normally noisy room was silent now, shrouded in dense gray smoke from the burnt gunpowder. People who had dived under tables and behind the bar began to rise and look around.
“Man!” Slim Carter exclaimed. “What the dickens was all that about?”
“Better go get the law. And fetch a doctor. Somebody may still be alive,” Reb said. “But I doubt it.”
Reb holstered his weapon. The stranger now held his gun by the forestock in his left hand. He pulled his right hand from his pocket, pushed back his coat, and holstered the weapon. Reb looked at the gun in awe. His Rebel officer’s gun often brought stares and comments, but the stranger’s gun was definitely a conversation piece in and of itself. It was a cut-down Colt Lightning pump action rifle. The stock had been cut off to little more than a stub. The barrel and tubular magazine had been shortened to a mere twelve inches. The little pump action gun’s capacity had been reduced from eleven .44-40 rounds to seven, including the one in the chamber. Apparently, the coat pocket had been cut out to allow the stranger to access the gun beneath the coat.
“You know my name. So who are you? And how do you know me?”
By now several men had gathered over the fallen men. A quick examination found that Rob Reese was still breathing. The buckshot had peppered his chest, and he was bleeding badly.
“Name is Holt. John D. Holt. My friends call me John. I was in Abilene when you brought in Bill Mixon. Saw you leaving the Constable’s office as I was coming in. He gave me the scoop on you. Said you were a capable lad. Seems he was right.”
One of the saloon girls was using a bar towel to soak up Reese’s blood. The front door opened and three men, badges on their chests and guns in their hand came through. The elder of the three, a stocky man with graying hair and a bushy mustache spoke. “What happened here?”
Holt pulled two folded “Wanted” posters from his shirt pocket and handed them to the man who was obviously the Sheriff and said, “That one over there is Bob Barger – wanted for murder and robbery out of Fannin County. Bloody one there that’s still breathing is Rob Reese, his partner. Also wanted for armed robbery. I believe the other two are Tom Foley and Bill Smelley. All wanted dead or alive.”
“Looks like y’all prefer dead,” a red headed skinny deputy chimed in.
“Gave us no choice in the matter. They drew down on us. We would have preferred to do it peaceful.”
“That’s right,” Reb added. “they were gunnin’ for Holt, here. If I had’nt stepped in, they’d have killed him sure.”
“Their tellin’ the truth, Burt,” Slim Carter spoke up. “I never seen nothin’ like it. That bunch pulled their guns, and these two took ‘em down before you could blink an eye.”
A man in a black suit carrying a black leather bag entered the room and started working on Reese. He looked up at Sheriff Burton Lovitt and gave a slight head shake.
“So you two are partners?” the Sheriff asked.
“Uh! Well – I uh,” Holt began.
“Well, let’s just say we collaborated on this one, Sheriff,” Reb finished.
Holt nodded.
Rob Reese lived just long enough to be moved to the doctor’s office before bleeding out. Sheriff Burton Lovitt and his two deputies disarmed Reb and Holt and escorted them to the Sheriff’s office for questioning. Several witnesses, including the bartender and Slim Carter confirmed their account. Descriptions and papers found on the bodies made preliminary identification of the bodies easy enough, but Lovitt said it would be up to the local judge to make a final ruling on the justification of the shooting and the identities of the bodies, but he foresaw no problems. They would have to wait a couple of days to collect their bounties. They should stay in town till then.
The crowd had thinned out at the saloon after the shooting. Reb and Holt found a table and had a drink together before retiring for the night.
“That’s some gun you got there, John. A Colt Lightning rifle – err pistol – uh. Why a cut-down rifle? Why not a regular six gun?”
“I had an accident a few years back. While I was in the Army. I got my thumb broke and it healed stiff. I can cock a single action revolver, but not very fast. With a shell in the chamber, I can cock the Lightning okay for a first shot, and the pump action makes it easy to get off additional rounds in a hurry.”
“I heard tell of a fellow in our business that carries a cut-down Winchester. What was his name?”
“Randall,” John said. “Josh Randall. Carries a ’76 in .45-70. Doesn’t hold many rounds, but when he hits someone they go down and don’t get up.”
“I guess. Forty-five seventy is a belly buster all right. Makes sense with your Lightning, though, stiff thumb and all.”
“Why you packing that cap and ball monster?” John asked.
Reb grinned. “Well, it takes all day to load it, but nine slugs and a load of buckshot can go a long way to even the odds. Besides, my Dad left it and an old iron frame Henry to me when he died. Between the two of ‘em you can shoot all week without reloading.”
John nodded. “How’d you get into this business?”
“I had to work on the farm till Pa died. Ma died a few months later, so I sold the place and took a job as deputy in Clark County Tennessee. Got the notion to wander and served as a lawman in various towns and counties around the country for about seven years. Ended up in Dodge for a while and served as a Deputy Marshal for two years. Decided if I wanted to travel and be my own boss, I needed a change of jobs. Bounty hunting seemed the way to go, so I been at it almost two years now. Keeps food on the table, and I work when I want and how I want. How about you?”
“Followed in my Daddy’s footsteps when I was seventeen and joined the Army. Went to West Point. My father had gone there before the war. Switched sides when the war came along, being a native Texan. Still had the respect of his Union peers and General Sheridan put in a word for me with Point. Anyway, after fifteen years in the cavalry, I retired. I didn’t see eye to eye with government policy toward the Indians. I had spent a lot of years tracking red men. Wasn’t much of a transition to tracking outlaws.”
Reb stroked his chin. “Where to from here?”
“Abilene. I got a line on a good one out there. Might could use some help. You interested?”
“I don’t know. I generally work alone.”
“A big pay off. Four, maybe five thousand. And that’s just the one’s I’ve seen paper on. They are likely to be hanging with other people of value.”
“That much, huh. Sounds kind of dangerous to me. Tell me more.”
There had been a slight delay in the pay off on the bounties. It was now Friday and the sheriff said it would be 9:00 A.M. Monday before the authorization could be wired and money drawn from the bank to cover the debt. With the extra time on their hands, Reb managed to talk John into a hunting trip.
John had just as soon get his meat at the Dawson Cafe and didn't cotton much to killing for sport. But it would be a diversion, and he had to admit that he did like the sandy haired youth who'd proven his mettle in the saloon showdown.
They headed out of town on Friday about two hours before sundown and set up camp just before dark at a narrow creek about five miles west of town. They built a fire, warmed some beans, and chewed on some jerky as they warmed to its glow. John broke out a harmonica and played an occasional chorus while Reb cleaned his old Henry rifle. The gun, while showing a bit of scabbard wear on the bluing, was in remarkably good shape. The fifteen round tube magazine had no visible dents or dings. The Henry rifles had no wood forestock like Winchesters and often suffered damage from falling over or being dropped. This could cause a shell to jam up in the tube and put a stop to shooting really quick. It was evident that Reb prized the twenty-five year old gun and had taken great care of it. The same was certain of the old LeMat.
John put away his harmonica and walked over to where he'd stored his saddle and other gear. He pulled his rifle from the soft leather case it rested in. It was a Sharps falling block single shot in .45-70. It too was in pristine condition except for a couple of minor dents in the left side of the stock. He got those dents the same time he got his thumb broken. His horse had been shot out from under him by an Apache warrior and he had taken a fall down a steep ravine. He had broken several ribs, his right wrist and thumb, and he had remained unconscious for three days. The wrist had been slow to heal, but the thumb still would not bend fully at the middle joint. The two dents and a broken sight had been the only damage to his trust Sharps. It took three weeks to get a replacement for the Creedmore sight shipped to the Arizona fort he had been stationed at, but it shot true as ever now.
He levered open the breech, pointed the barrel at the glowing fire, and peered down the length of the thirty-two inch octagonal barrel. The bore was clear of any obstruction, as he knew it would be. He lightly oiled a cotton patch and ran his cleaning rod through the barrel. It came out clean, again, as he knew it would. He closed the action and tried the double set triggers. They broke clean, crisp, and light. He slid the gun back in the case, retrieved his harmonica, and blew soft lullabies until he and Reb drifted off to sleep in their bed rolls.
The next day was spent scouting the woods for signs of deer, of which there were many. The two had found a bluff overlooking the creek about a half mile to the south that was an obvious watering spot for the he heard. Reb made himself a makeshift blind out a few hacked down limbs placed between the trunks of two large oaks. John had chosen a fallen tree about twenty yards to Reb’s right as a good place of cover.
Having found a likely place for a future kill, they continued scouting till dusk and returned to camp and sat about cooking supper. They had plenty of fresh meat. Reb had dropped a plump cottontail they had startled along the tail. It took him two shots to nail the lightning quick critter with the Henry, but John was impressed with Reb’s speed and accuracy with the old rimfire lever action.
After a filling meal of roast rabbit meat, the two settled in for an evening of conversation. John had learned that Reb’s dad had served in the Confederacy just as his father had, and that he had attained the rank of sergeant. The old LeMat Reb carried had been originally belonged to Sgt. Sean William McConnehey’s commanding officer. The rebel captain had given it to the sergeant as he was dying in a bunker at Vicksburg. The sergeant had carried it through the rest of the war and passed it down to Reb.
When he asked Reb how he’d gotten the handle Reb, he learned that when his dad had returned from the war, he’d placed his uniform cap on his six year old son’s head saying, “My! How my little Rebel has grown!” From that time on, he was Reb.
Reb was fascinated with the tales John told about his exploits tracking Apaches in Arizona and New Mexico. It made him appreciate the fact that things had settled down much in Texas. When pressed, John told him of how he had lost all stomach for tracking and fighting Indians when the general in command had ordered an attack on a village filled only with women, children, and old men. He had tendered his resignation, taken a couple of months to rest up in Southern California, and headed home for Texas to begin his new career.
His work had taken him as far as Virginia to the east, Wyoming to the north, New Mexico to the west, and Galveston to the South, but Central Texas was his home. He had a small piece of land about two days east of Dallas. It wasn’t much – a one-room cabin and a tin roofed barn nestled in a small clearing surrounded by a stand of oak and elms. His nearest neighbors were a family of Mexican ranchers who ran cattle on land their family had owned for generations before Texas had ever won its independence. It was the second largest ranch in the county. He had bought the little corner from Señor Caro for a handsome sum, but it had been well worth the price to him. He’d been born about fifteen miles away in the town of Greenville, and he always felt as though he was in the presence of family when he returned there, despite the fact both his parents had passed on years before and his only brother had died on the battlefield during the early days of the Civil War.
Reb McConnehey and John David Holt were kindred spirits. Though John was seven years Reb’s senior there was a bond between them that only similar life experiences could engender, while at the same time their lives had been as different as light from dark.
Reb’s formal education had ended at age 15, while John had been educated in the finest military academy in the country. Reb’s travels had been limited pretty much from Tennessee to Texas and the Gulf states, while John had traveled widely throughout the U.S., Canada, and Europe. But both of them had faced some of the meanest men in the country and brought them to justice. Both had stared into the bore of a loaded firearm more than once and were here to share their exploits over the orange embers of the smoldering campfire. And neither could tolerate the confines of the walls and fences that held most men prisoners in the guise of security. They were free spirits. They were bounty hunters. They were brothers.
The warm hues of the rising sun blended into the cold, dark sky like pumpkin custard on a blue china plate. Two does, a couple of spikes, and a five point buck were silhouetted against the morning sky as they drank from the rambling creek. From his perch between the two oaks, Reb had a clear shot at the husky buck’s side. He knew that John likewise had a good shot.
He looked over to his right and saw John flip up the tang site on the Sharps, raise it and peer through its tiny peep hole. The shot couldn’t be more than seventy yards. Why was he adjusting his long range sites? John looked toward him, winked, and gave a nod for Reb to take the shot. He did. Almost simultaneously the big .45-70 bellowed. The does and spikes scattered and the buck stumbled and dropped. Reb looked at John with a puzzled expression on his face. John pointed at something farther down the creek, but Reb saw nothing. John pointed again, and Reb picked up the binoculars laying to his left and looked through them. It took him a second or two to find it, but five or six hundred yards up the creek lay a seven point buck.
Happy with their take, they had strapped the bucks to their pack horses and broke camp in time to find themselves back in Dawson before noon. They found the owners of the Dawson Café amenable to the purchase of the fresh venison at a reasonable price. They had no real need for the meat themselves, although they would make a point of returning to the establishment for a couple of juicy venison steaks for supper.
When Monday morning came they were both at the sheriff’s office by 8:30 A.M., accompanying him to the telegraph office and then to the bank. Papers where signed and the bounties paid and divided. Coming up short of asking them to leave town, the sheriff let it be known he would not be disappointed to see them leave. He could find no legal fault in their actions at the saloon, but trouble and gun play seemed to follow bounty hunters as a whole. They let him know their business was done in Dawson and this was likely the last time the sun would set on them there.
Such was often the attitude toward bounty men. The reputation was not totally unwarranted. Many would turn in the own mothers for a price, and the majority would rather be safe than sorry when it came to making arrests. Not being willing to share, most serious criminals were brought in belly down over a saddle. Only a few men considered themselves an extension of the justice system and brought integrity into the profession. Reb and John were of this ilk.
Being too early for lunch or serious drinking, the pair decided to retire to the hotel drawing room for a glass of sherry (John’s idea) and a couple of good cigars. Reb has never had sherry, but activity in a small Texas town on a Monday morning is limited.
Both were dressed in business attire for their meeting with the sheriff and bank officers. John wore a black suit with a string tie and white silk shirt. His black boots were polished to a gleam and there was no gun protruding from the bottom of his coat. Reb wore tan trousers and a pinstriped white cotton shirt with sheep skin lined leather vest. He was wearing his LeMat. He tended to feel naked without it.
Truth be told, John tended to feel undressed when not packing too. He had a .38 caliber Colt Lightning double action revolver tucked in his pants at the small of his back. It was a strange coincidence to John, that Colt had chosen to name their excellent pump action rifle with the same name it had given it’s double action revolver some six years earlier. He had chosen the Lightning revolver as a backup gun for the same reason he carried the cut-down pump gun – his bum thumb. The three-inch barrel storekeeper model had a somewhat tight trigger pull, even after polishing the action, but being double action, he didn’t have to pull the hammer back to shoot it. This short barreled model had no ejector rod, meaning he had to use a specially filed down blade on his jack knife to push out the empties, taking quite a while to reload. That is why it was a back up gun only.
There was a deck of cards at the table in the drawing room, and Reb busied himself with shuffling, cutting, and fiddling with them. There was also a chess set on the table. John sat across the table from Reb, glass in hand, chair leaning back against the wall.
He puffed approvingly at his cigar. “About that job I mentioned . . .”
“Wondered when you were going to get back around to that. What exactly, or should I say who, does it involve”
John leaned forward in his chair. “Ever heard of Vince Martin? Cole Rifkin?”
Reb’s face was impassive. “Anyone in this business who hasn’t? Everybody knows them boys has high tailed it to Mexico by now. Enough heat on them to make ‘em sweat bullets.”
“Suppose I told you they’re not in Mexico, but right here in Texas – well, maybe not in Texas, but close to it. And definitely not in Mexico.”
“You mentioned Abilene, if I recollect. That be where they’re hidin’?”
“No. I hadn’t decided how far I could trust you when I said that. Truth is they’re a bit farther east than that.”
“How far east?” Reb pressed.
“You haven’t said whether you’re in yet.”
“Look, Lighnin’ Bolt. If you’re chasing those two, your estimate of five thousand is considerably light. They’re worth twenty-five a piece. And if I am any judge of outlaws, they won’t be alone. It’s certain that it’s going to be more than a one man job, for you or for me. If you got a solid lead, I’m in!”
John’s brow wrinkled, his right eye cocked as if question. “Lighting Bolt? Where the heck did that come from?”
“The gun. Your Lighting pump. And your speed. Lightning Bolt Holt.”
John just shook his head. “I’ll be dogged.”
The name would stick.
CHAPTER 2
The job was indeed a bit farther east than Abilene. As a matter of fact, it was on the opposite side of the state, near the Louisiana border. A town called Jefferson. At least that’s where the search would begin. However, they were a long way from Jefferson, Texas. A good week to ten day’s ride by the trail. A lot shorter by rail. Overnight trip on the train if they left from the nearest rail head. But that was not the plan.
They would head northeast to Lightning Bolt’s place near Mexico. Not the country – the community. Well, actually it was just a wide spot in the road between Greenville and Terrell where a general store sat. It was known by the locals as “Mexico” because Señor Caro’s family and ranch hands made up the majority of the clientele. The white cowboys from the McBride Ranch and the Sainter Farm had given it the label and it had stuck.
There was no animosity between the white ranch hands and the Mexicans, though. Señor Juan Caro’s caballeros were as good at their jobs as anyone around. And Señor Caro’s hands drew the same pay as their white counter parts. The only reason Caro employed so many Mexican hands was that most were in some way related to him.
It was a two day ride to Lightning Bolt’s spread, and they stopped at the Mexico Store for provisions. The store was comprised of a main building of about thirty feet square, covered on all four sides with corrugated tin siding and a roof of the same. A wooden porch ran the width of the building with a single step up in the center. On either side of the step was a hitching post. To the left side of the building was a shed, open in front and bearing only corrugated tin on one side, the end, and its sloping roof. Bags of feed and a few bales of hay were stored in that area for easy access for wagons. On the right side of the building was a small log-frame smoke house used for hanging and curing meat usually supplied by the local ranches.
John and Reb hitched their horses to one of the rails and sauntered inside.
Pedro Soledad, Señor Caro’s foreman and nephew happened to be there along with two of the ranch hands and Emilita Caro, Don Caro’s younger daughter.
“Señorita Caro! Como estas. Y como estan su familia?” John inquired of her family.
“Estamos bien, Señor Holt. Y usted?”
“Yo tambian. Ah! Escusame, por favor. Este hombre es mi amigo, Señor Reb McConnehey,” he said, introducing Reb.
Reb looked slightly flustered, understanding almost no Spanish, whatsoever.
The brown-eyed beauty appeared to be about twenty years old. She was about five feet two, and her olive complexion was smooth and unblemished. She seemed to sense Reb’s uneasiness at being left in the dark, conversationally. “Perhaps, we should converse in ingles, Señor John. Your young friend does not seem to comprende’,” she said in accented English.
“Indeed. Reb, this is Señorita Emilita Caro. Her father owns much of the land between here and Sandy Bottom. It was Señor Caro who graciously sold me my land.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said in his Tennessee drawl and shaking her extended hand.
By now Pedro had wander over to investigate the conversation between his cousin and the two men.
“Ah! Señor Holt,” he began. “I did not recognize you at first. Are you home to stay for a while?”
“Hey, Pedro,” he said shaking the foreman’s rawhide tough hand. “Good to see you, amigo. No! My friend, Reb, and I are just here for the night. We’ll be riding into Greenville tomorrow to catch the train to Jefferson. Got a little business to take care of near there.”
“I see. Your friend, Reb eez it? He too is a – como se dice? Bounty hunter?”
“Si, Pedro. He too is in the business. How are things at the ranch?”
“Esta bien. Jose, Paco, y yo – we just rode in with Emilita to pick up some supplies. Why don’t you and your friend join us for supper.”
“Si, Señor Holt,” Emilita added. “You and Señor Mc – ?”
“McConnehey,” Reb finished for her.
“Si. You must join us for dinner at the hacienda.”
John held up his hand in mock protest. “Señorita Caro. You are too kind. We couldn’t think of imposing . . .”
“Don’t be silly. It is no imposition. Mama and Papa will want to see you. It has been too long. You simply must join us. A seis o – six o’clock I mean. Si?”
John looked at Reb with a “what do you say” look. He shrugged his shoulders to say “why not?” “Six it is, then. We will see you there.
Lightning Bolt’s ranch lay about three miles northeast of the Mexico Store, down in the bottoms, about a mile due north of Juan Caro’s hacienda. The twenty acres of land that comprised John Holt’s holdings was mostly rich, black land. Good for cotton or corn with enough grazing land for a few head. Perhaps, he would one day retire and put the land to use as a farm or ranch, but more likely he’d just keep it as his personal refuge.
The little log cabin was pretty much as he’d left it, except for the cobwebs and the layer of dust. The Caro ranch hands kept a watch on the place, not that there were likely to be many visitors in the area. There were only four or five ranches is this part of the county.
John and Reb arrived at the cabin with barely enough time to splash a little water over their faces and change clothes. Dinner at the hacienda would not be formal, but “trail” clothes would not be appropriate. Again, John chose to carry only his back up revolver and encouraged Reb to leave the LeMat behind and carry the Remington derringer he purchased from the gunsmith in Dawson. Reb had bought the little two shot rim fire pistol at John’s suggestion. John had told him that a friend of his from San Francisco, a soldier of fortune, had found the little gun handy on a number of occasions. Most people see a big iron on your hip they never consider that you may have a hideout in your pocket or waist band.
It was just past sundown when they reached the hacienda. The large, white frame Spanish style house with a red tile roof stood on a tree lined hill. The front porch of the house would swallow John’s little cabin. They were greeted by Pedro who escorted them into the house. Emilita met them in the foyer and led the group into the dining room where Señor Juan Caro, his wife Louisa, and their other daughter Maribel and her husband Stuart McBride sat at a long oak table.
Introductions were made and two Mexican servants began serving the meal. Stuart McBride was the son of Jason McBride who owned the largest ranch in the county. Between the two families most of south central part of Hunt County was accounted for.
“Well, Stuart, Emilita and Pedro failed to mention that you and your lovely wife would be here tonight. A pleasant surprise. It has been a long time,” John said. “I hear that you were elected to the County Commissioner’s seat for this district. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, John, but I’m afraid no one else wanted the job. I ran unopposed, so I hope I didn’t bite off more than I can chew.”
“Nonsense,” Don Caro offered. “This area needs someone with a head on their shoulders to get things done. We need new roads. Especially between here and Greenville. It would make it easier to get the cotton crops in and for the women to get into town to shop. One cannot depend on the general store here for every need.” Don Caro did not use the store’s common name of “Mexico Store.”
“So John, I hear you are heading to Jefferson tomorrow. Is that right?”
“Si, Don Caro, Reb and I are indeed headed for Jefferson. We have reason to believe business may be profitable for us in that area.”
“Ah, yes. Business. Jefferson has not been a center of business since the Corp of Engineers blew up the Great Raft on Big Cypress Bayou in '73 and changed the course of the river there. That put an end to the river boat trade there, and the railroad never did take up the slack. I suspect the kind of business you speak of could be somewhat risky.” It as a statement not a question.
“Oh, I am sure it’s nothing Reb and I can’t take care of,” John countered.
“Señor McConnehey was it? Reb? A Confederate soldier?”
“My Pa was,” Reb stated. “I was just a kid when the war broke out. He laid the moniker on me as a joke, I think, when he came home from the war.”
Don Juan Caro, a distinguished looking man with a neatly trimmed graying beard and mustache looked as if he were searching for his next word. “John. Since I have known you, you have worked alone, no? Why all of a sudden do take on a partner?”
“Reb here helped me out of a jam. I just thought I would throw a little work his way.”
“Señor John, I sense you are holding something back. I think maybe you are as my son-in-law put it, biting of more than you can chew and you need a little bit of help.”
John shrugged. “It will be a difficult job. There are some desperate men in an area where they may have a number of friends. But I assure you. My friend and I are not fools. We will acquire whatever help we need in apprehending these men.”
“That’s right, sir,” Reb added. “We have both been doing this for some time. We will be careful. You can count on that.”
Emilita spoke up now. “Perhaps, Papa, you could send someone with them to help them out. Pedro, perhaps.”
“That’s really not necessary – ” John began.
“Si, Pedro! He is a good hand with a gun, and a very intelligent lad.”
“Really, Señor Caro. Pedro is your foreman. I couldn’t – ”
“Nonsense!” Don Caro rang a little bell and a servant entered. “Rosa,” he said. “Go and get Pedro. Tell him I need to see him right now.”
“But Don Caro, what about the branding and taking the cattle to the rail head?” Pedro protested.
“Nonsense, Pedro. Jose and the boys can handle things without you. Señor Holt es mi amigo. He has always been ready to lend a hand when needed, and you are my most capable hand. Of course, I will not force you to go. It will be dangerous and I can understand if you are concerned for – ”
“Oh, no, Tio Juan . . .” The familiar term slipped out. He generally never referred to his uncle as such when on the job. It was not professional. “I would be honored to assist Señor Holt. If you a sure . . .”
“Si, Pedro. I am certain we can manage in your absence. And you will continue to draw full pay while you are gone.”
After supper, Lightning Bolt and Pedro retired to Pedro’s private quarters in the bunk house to discuss his travel needs. Mean while, Reb had accompanied Emilita and her family into the large living room for after dinner wine, cigars, and conversation.
Reb was taken with the charm and wit of the dark-eyed beauty, and with the down to earth cordiality of her family. Most of the Mexicans he had met had been ranch hands and laborers with little or no education. Of course, although of Mexican descent, Emilita, and her sister were American citizens by birth, and Don Caro was a Texican, his family having occupied the land long before Texas had won its independence from Mexico. Only Louisa had been born in Mexico, but she too, buy virtue of having arrived in Texas before its statehood was an American citizen.
Emilita had been schooled initially by the nuns in the Our Lady of the Angels Catholic Church before attending boarding school for two years in Mexico City. She had also spent some time in Spain and France as a part of her education. Don Juan Caro felt a young lady should experience the finer things that the world has to offer before settling down to raising babies and tending house.
Although Reb had done a lot of reading on his own, he had dropped out of school at fifteen to help out on the farm. He felt a little out of his arena with such a cultured group. Much of their conversation centered on music and art. Reb played a little fiddle and had been to a museum or two, but his tastes leaned toward Stephen Foster tunes and the half naked ladies on the walls of the saloons and taverns he visited.
Still, the group made him feel welcome. He had to admit Lightning Bolt could do a lot worse for neighbors.
Pedro and John had gathered Pedro’s gear and saddled his horse. Pedro wore a Merwin Hulbert .44 Russian Caliber double action revolver in a cross draw holster. He had a double barrel sawed off Belgian made shotgun in a saddle holster. John suggested he carry the scatter gun in lieu of a Winchester carbine. In a close fight, a scatter gun was often as devastating mentally as it was physically. Since they would be traveling light, it seemed a better choice.
They all mounted up around nine o’clock and rode back to John’s cabin where Pedro and Reb sacked out on the dirt floor. They were up and riding by sun up.
When they arrived in Greenville, John made a stop at the shop of a local gunsmith by the name of Jeb Miller. Miller was a master gunsmith who had been crafting fine weapons from flintlocks to custom game rifles for many years. He handled all of John’s gunsmithing needs.
“John! Good to see you my friend,” the white haired artisan greeted from behind his glass counter. “I guess you’re here for your new gun. Just a minute.” He disappeared into the backroom and returned with a gleaming new Winchester Model 1887 Lever Action Shotgun, holding in out for John to examine.
John took the 10 gauge weapon, dropped the lever and checked the chamber, and re-closed the action. He snapped the trigger, and shook his head. “Jeb, you are an artist.”
The old man gave a “I’m too modest to admit it, but your right” shrug and said, “I polished out the action and changed a couple of springs here and there. Seems to feed real smooth, but it kicks like a Missouri mule. I cut the barrel back to nineteen inches. Gives a pretty good pattern out to about twenty yards.”
John passed the gun for Reb and Pedro to inspect. “Better give me a couple of boxes of double ought. Make it three. Pedro’s carrying a double barrel in his saddle holster. And I guess you have the .45-70 special loads made up for me.”
“Of course. Hand loaded to your exact specifications. But may I recommend #1 Buck instead of the double-ought. The .32 caliber pellets are not that much smaller than the thirty-sixes, but the extra pellets gained per round give a denser pattern, increasing the likelihood of a solid hit at longer ranges.”
John nodded. The man sat the boxes on the counter top. “What’s the total?” John asked.
“Forty-seven fifty. How’s that Lightning pump working these days?”
“Doing the job, Jeb. You do great work. I’ve run at least five hundred rounds through it with out a mishap. Now, if you just do something to bring my friend here up to date,” he added, pointing toward Reb’s huge LeMat.”
“LeMat, heh! Haven’t seen one of those in a while. You ever consider converting it to cartridges?”
Reb smiled, “Can’t say I ever gave it any thought. It’s served me well for a lot of years, but it is a thought.”
“I can bore it and rifle it for forty-fours--.44-40’s or .44 Russian – your choice. I can convert the shotgun bore for 20 gauge shells and slick up the action a bit. Run you about fifty bucks – kind of steep, but worth it. You’d have to give me a week or so to get it all done.”