Western Justice

This one is a bit different from the stories I've previously written. I'm a fan of westerns and wanted to write a western short story. Hence the following.

The story has vigilante justice, some cruel actions and no graphic sex of any kind. As always, all of the persons participating in any kind of physical intimacy are over the age of eighteen.

Your constructive comments and feedback are always welcome.

WESTERN JUSTICE

I rode into Taylorsville in the early afternoon. After six weeks on the trail and a week of cold camps while scouting the B bar T looking unsuccessfully for the opportunity to kill the three men who'd murdered my family, I wanted a room, a bath, a haircut, a drink, a meal and a woman, in that order.

My name is Jake Sullivan. For the last twelve years, I've been a scout for the cavalry, primarily focused on bringing the remaining bands of Indians not yet settled on a reservation to heel. I'd been born and spent most of my first fifteen years in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where my father raised horses. Pa had managed to protect the core of his blood stock herd from confiscation by either the Yankees or the Confederate scroungers during that late unpleasantness and we'd headed west after Sheridan's cavalry had looted and burned the length of the valley toward the end of the war. Pa had established a ranch for the express purpose of crossing the blood stock he'd brought west with the mustangs running wild on the prairie. His thought was that he'd get a horse with more size and speed than the average mustang and more endurance than the blooded stock he'd raised back east. He turned out to be correct and the cavalry units in the area were soon buying all of the mounts he could provide.

Two years earlier I'd been in the field for the entire spring, summer and fall chasing various holdouts from the reservation. When I'd finally returned back to the fort, the troop adjutant asked me to see the post commander immediately. It wasn't a good meeting.

"Jake, I'm sorry. I don't know how to tell you this. Your father, mother and brother were murdered a couple of weeks ago. Their ranch was burned and the horses stolen. We didn't find them for at least a week after it happened. Your father was due to bring in another twenty mounts and, when he was a week late, I sent Jed Smith out to the ranch to find out what happened. Jed found your family dead and the house and barn burned to the ground. Your father, mother and brother got their licks in before they died, though. Jed found six bodies, none of whom we can identify, and three horses dead in the yard. The bodies were white men, not Indians, and the horses were shod. The bodies had been stripped of anything of value, and the horses had the brands cut off so the owners couldn't be identified. Jed buried your family and dragged the rest into the nearest gully for the coyotes and ravens to dispose of. He tried to follow the thieves, but there'd been two heavy rain storms in the week previous and he lost the trail. All he could say for sure was that they'd initially headed south, but that might have been a false start. I don't know what else to tell you, except that you can take some time off to deal with all of this. If you want to talk to Jed, he's probably over at the saloon."

I thanked the colonel and walked over to the saloon to talk to Jed. He greeted me with a grimace and bottle of whiskey. "I guess the old man told you what happened?"

"He did."

"I'm really sorry, Jake. By the time we found your family, the two storms had completely wiped out the trail of the scum that killed them and stole the horses. From what I could gather, your brother was in the corral, your pa was in the barn and your ma was in the house. It looked like your brother was shot first, even though he was unarmed. Your pa must have come out with that Spencer rifle he kept in the barn and he got several of those raiders and three horses before they got him. Your ma must have had the Winchester, because she got a couple before the flames drove her out of the house and they killed her. I buried the three of them together on that little hillside overlooking the ranch buildings and dragged the other bodies into the gully after trying to find any identification or other information about who they were or where they came from. I even checked the horses that your pa killed, but the raiders had removed the brands and any saddle bags, so I had no luck there, either. I just wish I could have done more."

"I understand. You did the best your could for my family and I'm grateful. If I'm lucky, someday I'll find out who did this and I'll get my justice. In the meantime, I'm going to get drunk after which you can put me to bed." I did and he did.

When I sobered up the next day, I asked the colonel to notify the other posts in the area about the stolen horses, figuring that the army would be interested since they were destined for the cavalry. By the time the message got circulated down to the district headquarters and back out to the individual forts, it was much too late for anyone to see the thieving murderers with the horses, or so I thought. In any event, the notices didn't generate any new information.

For the next two years, I continued to scout for the army. We continued to chase small bands that had resisted being placed on the reservation or had decided to leave after trying reservation life for a while. I had asked every officer and sergeant I knew to look out for horses with my father's brand other than those the cavalry was riding, but none had been seen. Then, one day, Jed's misfortune turned out to be my good fortune. He stepped in front of a team of horses that had broken loose from its wagon, which knocked him over and stepped on him, resulting in a broken leg. As he was out of action until his leg healed, I was tasked with carrying a message to another fort more than two hundred miles south of ours.

The message wasn't particularly urgent, so it took me almost five days to reach the fort. Since there was no reply, I rode into the town outside the fort to get a drink and perhaps find some other companionship. As I stabled my horse, I saw a familiar looking mare in the corral. With the help of the stable hand, I got the horse over to the fence and examined the brand carefully. It was clearly my father's. Since I knew the horse and knew that he had not sold any of his horses to anyone other than the cavalry during the period he'd owned this one, I finally had a potential person to question. Now all I had to do is find a way to do it without being seen or arrested.

I didn't get my drink or my companionship. Instead, I spent two days camped out in the livery stable waiting for the owner of that horse to leave town. He finally appeared on the third morning, saddled and rode out. I followed him at a distance until we were well clear of the town and in a place where I could be certain no one else was in sight. At that point, I spurred my horse to a trot and caught up with him.

"That's quite a horse you're riding. I'd sure like to get one as nice as that one. Where'd you get it?"

The rider looked at me and hesitated to answer, clearly thinking about his response. "I bought it from the breeder, a rancher about five days' ride north of here. Paid a good price for her, too."

"Can I get the rancher's name? I scout for the cavalry and I'm based north of here. I'd love to track that rancher down and try to buy one of his horses."

"His name was Jackson or Johnson, or something like that."

"Are you sure his name wasn't Sullivan?"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, I'm calling you a thief and a murderer. My father bred that horse. It's his brand on that mare's hip. He only sold to the cavalry, so you had to be one of the scum that killed my family and stole his horses."

With that, the rider went for his Colt. Unfortunately for him, the thong was still over the hammer, preventing him from drawing. Mine was not so restrained and I pulled my revolver and knocked him off his horse. I then pointed it at him and told him to walk off the trail toward a grove of trees about two hundred yards distant.

When we got to the trees, I had him lay down on his belly with his hands extended,, then dismounted and tied both our horses to a tree. I drew the large knife I always carried on my belt. Then I removed his revolver and told him to turn over, face me with his legs spread as far as they'd go and look me in the eye. I began to question him.

"You have one chance to survive our conversation. Tell me what happened at the Sullivan ranch and who shot my brother, father and mother. If it wasn't you, I'll let you live. If you lie to me, I'll know and I'll kill you now. You have until I count to ten to start talking, or I'll take this knife and I'll cut the tendons in your ankles. If you lie to me, I'll carve you up like I'd carve a prairie chicken for dinner. So start talking." And to my surprise, he did.

"I was riding for the B bar T, out of Taylorsville in Texas. We'd just driven a herd up and were headed back when a couple of the horses from our remuda wandered off. We followed them to the ranch. They'd smelled the herd being held and had tried to join it. Boss Taylor took one look at the herd and decided he wanted all of them for the ranch. He usually gets what he wants and he was hung over and in a foul mood after being drunk the night before and having to trail the horses we'd lost."

"Did he try to buy them?"

"Boss Taylor don't buy things, at least not things like stock. He just takes what he wants and whoever he takes it from just needs to deal with it."

"So what happened?"

"Our foreman, Matt Long, rode up to the corral and went to toss a rope over a fence post to pull the fence down. The boy objected and pulled a knife to cut the rope. Matt shot him. That brought the man out of the barn with the Spencer rifle. He really knew how to handle that rifle. He got four of us, plus a horse before Brad Taylor, Boss's son, shot him. The woman was firing from the house. She got two more of us plus two horses before the fire we'd set drove her out. Boss Taylor killed her himself."

"Where were you when all this was going on?"

"My horse was one of the ones that was killed. I was hunkered down behind it trying not to get shot. Bullets were flying everywhere."

"How'd you end up with this horse?"

"I didn't agree to ride for the B bar T to murder people or steal horses. I was pulling night guard duty one evening. It was the first opportunity I got, so I saddled this horse to ride night watch and rode out. Boss owes me for three months wages, so he let me go, I guess. At least he didn't try to track me down as far as I can tell. I've been drifting between ranches ever since, trying to stay out of sight. That visit to town was the first time I've been in one in six months. I was just unlucky that you recognized the horse and checked the brand."

"So, let me see if I've got this straight. You were part of a gang that murdered three people and stole a herd of horses. Then you stole one of the horses and rode off. You didn't report the murders or the theft to the U.S. Marshal and you've been using a stolen horse for two years. Am I right?"

At this point, I could tell that the man was beginning to see the error of his ways. I decided to reinforce the message.

"Lay back down on your stomach and stretch your arms out all the way."

He did as I'd told him to do.

I took a rock and broke both his hands. Then I smashed one of his knee joints.

"I promised I wouldn't kill you if you told the truth, and I believe you have. I didn't promise you wouldn't pay for being part of the gang that killed my family. You're about two hundred yards from the trail. You can drag yourself over there. I'll leave your saddle and your revolver there. If you're lucky, someone will be along soon to take you to a doctor. I'm taking whatever money I find in your saddlebags as rent for the use of pa's horse. If I ever see you again, I'll kill you. If I find you've warned the Taylors, I'll hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?"

He managed to grunt out an acknowledgment. With that, I mounted my horse, grabbed the reins on the horse he'd been riding and rode back to trail. I dumped his saddle and his Colt on the side of it and headed back to the fort from which I'd originally departed more than a week before, his horse trailing behind. I needed to get the colonel's permission to go hunting.

Three days of hard riding brought me back to the fort. I walked into the colonel's office and told him what I'd found out. I asked to be paid off and for a furlough to allow me to track down and deal with the people who'd killed my family. The colonel agreed on the spot and wished me good hunting.

It took me six weeks of riding to get to the B bar T and I spent another week scouting the Taylor ranch just like I was scouting a Sioux or Cheyenne encampment for a raid. Using the binoculars I'd "borrowed" from the cavalry, I studied the comings and goings of various people on the ranch until I could identify the foreman, Matt Long, and Boss Taylor. Try as I might, I couldn't be sure which of the other people I observed was Brad Taylor and I didn't want to kill just the two I'd identified without getting the opportunity to kill the third murderer as well. Finally, frustrated, tired and almost out of supplies, I decided to ride into Taylorsville to resupply and find out what I could about Brad Taylor without drawing too much attention to myself.

My first stop was at the hotel, where I rented a room for a week and stowed my gear, including both my Winchester and the Sharps.44-90-500 with the telescopic sight I'd borrowed from Jed. With an accurate range far exceeding that of the Winchester, it was the tool I intended to use to kill all three of the men who'd murdered my family while staying out of range of them and their ranch hands. I'd practiced with it on the trip down to the point where I could get off three aimed shots in a five count and I expected that would allow me to kill all three before they knew what was going on. After that, I expected to simply outrun their hands using the horses I'd brought along with me. If necessary, I could use the Sharps to discourage pursuit lone enough to conceal my trail from the average tracker and then return to my duties as an army scout. I doubted anyone would ever care to pursue me once I left Texas. People like Boss Taylor might inspire fear in their hands, but rarely garnered much loyalty beyond that which they bought with wages. If the money stopped flowing, the hands would drift elsewhere.

I asked the clerk at the hotel to point me toward a livery stable so I could stable my horses and then to a place where I could get a bath and a shave. Following his directions, I led my horses to the stable and arranged for them to be fed and cared for and for my saddle and pack saddles to be stored until I was ready to leave.

As I was talking to the hostler, I looked over into the corral and noticed three horses that, at first glance, were every bit as fine as anything my father had bred. They were exactly the kind of horses I'd want to use as a base to rebuild my father's breeding operation.

"Those three are some horses. Are they for sale?"

"Might be. Miss Morrison ain't likely to be needing them after the trial."

"Trial?"

"For killing Boss Taylor's son."

So that was why I couldn't find the son who'd participated in the murders while I was scouting the B bar T. At this point, I decided to play dumb.

"Who's Boss Taylor?"

"He's the top dog around here. Owns thousands of acres about a half day's ride out of town. He's the guy the town's named for."

"And why did this woman kill his son?"

"She claims he tried to assault her."

"Did he?"

"Oh, probably. He'd beaten up whores before."

"She was a whore?"

"Well, she worked for Sally Mae."

"Who's Sallie Mae?"

"The local madam."

"But how does that give him the right to assault the woman?"

"Well, it probably doesn't. But Miss Morrison's lived around here long enough to know that the Taylors get to take anything they want and trying to stop them isn't a good idea. Besides, you can't rape a whore."

"Says who?"

"Well, Boss Taylor, among others."

"So where's Miss Morrison now?"

"In a cell down at the jail."

"Can she have visitors? I'd like to buy these horses."

"You'll have to ask the sheriff."

"Thanks." And with our conversation ended, I headed to the barber shop, which also offered baths.

I've found over the years that the three best places to get information are barber shops, saloons and whorehouses. Taylorsville would prove to be no exception.

While I waited for the water to heat for my bath, I engaged the barber in a little conversation.

"I was talking to Joe down at the livery stable. He tells me you're going to have a trial here soon. What's that about?"

"Sarah Morrison stabbed Brad Taylor to death. She's being tried for murder."

"Women murdering men is pretty rare. What's the story?"

"The Morrison woman was out riding. She says Taylor stopped her, beat her, tore her clothes and tried to rape her. She stabbed him to stop and it turned out to be fatal."

"What does the evidence say?"

"Well, before he left, Doc Jackson says he treated her for cuts and bruises and she showed him the torn clothes."

"Sounds like she's got a pretty good reason to have stabbed him."

"Going to be hard to prove. Boss Taylor ran Doc out of town and her clothes have disappeared."

"So what you're telling me is that she isn't likely to get a fair trial?"

"In this town? You have to be joking. Boss Taylor runs this whole county. He owns the sheriff, the mercantile and most of the other businesses, or at least the buildings in which they're located. About the only two businesses that aren't his are the whorehouse and the livery stable."

I tucked that fact away for future consideration.

"So, when is the trial?"

"As soon as the circuit judge gets here. Probably next week, if he keeps to his usual schedule."

"I guess I'm going to miss it then. I'll be riding on in a few days. Sorry to miss a good trial, though. Not often you see one."

"This may be a good trial, but it won't be a fair one. The jury will be stacked with Boss Taylor's people and they'll have been instructed to find her guilty. After that, they'll hang her as soon as the gallows can be built."

With that, he informed me my bathwater was hot and I went into his back room to enjoy my first hot bath in over two months. After the bath, I put on clean clothes, dropped the clothes I'd been wearing at the washerwoman's house and headed over to the saloon for a drink and a meal.

Not surprisingly, the saloon was busy and conversations were flowing freely. I sat off in a corner and just listened. What I heard convinced me that while Boss Taylor might control the town, not everyone who lived there was fully on board with trying Miss Morrison for resisting her attacker. But while I heard lots of talk about how unfair the process was going to be, I didn't hear anyone saying they'd do anything to stop it or to try to get a higher authority involved to prevent what was shaping up to be a judicial murder, since they'd likely suffer if Boss Taylor got wind of their objections. Clearly, the owner of the B bar T had the town of Taylorsville buffaloed.

The bartender was kind enough to give me directions to the whorehouse, so I walked down there after finishing my meal. Like most of the places of its kind which I'd encountered over the years, it had a certain tawdry class to the furnishings and a collection of somewhat desperate young and not so young women. I chose one after conversing with a couple, then paid the madam and adjourned to a room where I enjoyed an enthusiastic romp that lasted over an hour.