Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 33

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sunday morning, Jeff and Sally drove their new buggy into Jasper and went to her father’s church; after the service her father rode home with them for a fried chicken dinner. Cookie’s meal was delicious. Afterward, Sally served her favorite dessert, pecan pie. She invited Ed in to have some pie. He accepted and ate two slices. Then Sally set her friend down on the back porch with three big pieces of fried chicken, a plate of gravy, and three biscuits. Jeff sent Ed to Jasper with Sally’s father before Sally could feed Ed the rest of the fried chicken.

Hobie Gilbert of the Double Bar G stopped by the next week and said he was missing about fifty head of cows. He wondered if Jeff was missing any also.

“No, I don’t reckon, or my foreman would’ve already told me. Do you think yours were rustled?”

“Yeah, Jeff, I do. I tracked them to the Saber where they crossed, but there’s so many tracks going both directions, I couldn’t tell which way my cows went.”

“Suppose they’re in that boxed canyon we found ’em in before? Suppose we take a ride over there for a look-see, I’ll ask my foreman to go along with us.” Jeff told Smitty to get his pistols and come along. The three men set out south, crossed the river, and headed west. An hour’s ride later they were at the entrance of the secluded valley. There were no cattle to be seen.

“Maybe they herded ’em east and sold ’em to Fort Davis, Hobie.”

“Could be Jeff, I’ll ride over there in the morning and see.” Hobie Gilbert rode back to Jeff’s ranch a couple of days later and said his cows were indeed sold to the army post at Fort Davis. “And the seller had a scar across his chin. It sounds like that Lester Willis hombre, don’t it?” Hobie asked.

“Yeah, it sure does,” remarked Jeff.

Two weeks later, Smitty rode out to their pasture northeast of the Saber River. He wanted to make sure the cattle his boys had herded there last week were still where they were supposed to be. They were feeding closer to the river than they should’ve been. He noticed quite a few horse tracks leading from around his herd and going back toward the river, so he followed. They led into the water. Looks like someone’s scoutin’ our cattle agin,” he murmured to himself. Smitty turned his pony back toward the cattle just as a shot rang out. The slug caught Smitty high in his left lung and knocked him out of his saddle. He landed heavily on his back, looking up at the sky.

“Damn,” he whispered, after catching his breath, “so this is how I’m cashing out. I always figured I’d be killed standing up.” Smitty’s lungs began to fill with fluid. And he began coughing up bright red blood.

“Hello down there,” said the man looking down at Smitty. “Is that ground hard on your back, old son? Sorry you’re still alive, my shooting was way off today, or you’d be a dead man right now.”

“I recognize you, Lester Willis, you saddle scum,” replied Smitty between coughs. “You go to hell.”

“You go first, old friend,” replied Willis, and he drew his pistol and shot Smitty in the forehead, just above his eyes.

“That deed oughta put old Jeff Nelson in a ‘come see us’ mood, wouldn’t you say so, boss?” Willis opined to himself.

Just before noon, one of JN’s cowboys came galloping into the ranch compound.

“Somebody’s shot Smitty down by the Saber. He’s been killed.”

Someone had indeed shot him. His two Colts were still in their holsters, and it looked like he could’ve seen the person who shot him in his forehead. Jeff was numb and devastated. His right hand was gone, the man he’d went through the entire war with, in all the battles they’d fought. Smitty had never gotten so much as a scratch. And now he was dead, shot from behind and then murdered by some coward.

“Lester Willis,” said Jeff, “that outlaw is behind this. I know the bastard is. Yeah, he and Jorn Murphy are to blame. Damn, what was this county coming to?”

Jeff wanted to cry, to scream, to shed some tears for Smitty, but he couldn’t. He was too hurt, too sad, and too damn mad. I’ll find the person who did this Smitty. So help me, I’ll find him, and he’ll pay up. I promise you, mi amigo.

M. “Smitty” Smith was laid to rest beside Bo Jenkins and Ted on the small knoll overlooking the ranch. Jeff’s two best friends had lost their lives working for his ranch. Jeff suddenly felt so much guilt. Was he to blame? Jeff felt he must be.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, my darling,” Sally said softly. “It wasn’t your fault someone shot him. Smitty was doing what he wanted to do, and that was helping you on this ranch. Please try not to be so sad. Come let my pour you another drink and let’s go sit outside in my garden, then I’ll make you a nice supper.”

Jeff had trouble getting to sleep that night. He kept reliving battles against the Confederates he’d fought with Smitty and Bo, battle after battle after battle. Sometime after, he’d heard the clock in the hallway strike 3:00 a.m. Jeff was finally able to drop off to sleep.