While Sheriff Brewster was trying to calm down what promised to turn into the most awkward fix he had ever been in since he was appointed sheriff of Parson’s End, the four Armstrong brothers were talking over the best way that they could protect their parents from further harm. Seth Armstrong’s wound looked, at least to Anthony’s eyes, to be healing up nicely, but their father was in no fit state to be moved. Since Ma wouldn’t dream of being separated from her husband, this meant that their plans revolved around defending the house from possible attack.
Soon after Jack had come in from the barn that morning, Anthony had contrived to speak to him privately; without Tom and Andrew hearing. He said, “Jack, it might be life or death for us, you have to level with me. Do you think you killed anybody for sure last night?”
His brother nodded reluctantly and then shook his head in despair. Anthony said, “You certain sure about it?”
“I shot Mrs Doolan in the face. I saw the ball strike her full in the face, she’s dead all right.”
Anthony shook his head. He was genuinely grieved to hear of the woman’s death; after all, he had been speaking to her in such a friendly fashion not four and twenty hours earlier. Still, that was nothing to the purpose. The only thing now was to make sure that they came out on top if there was to be any sort of a roughhouse. So woebegone did his brother look, that Anthony reached over and squeezed Jack’s shoulder reassuringly, saying, “Hey, it’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
This little kindness was ill-received by his brother, who jerked away irritably and said, “You ain’t my Pa! The hell gives you the right to put on airs so? You ain’t been home above five minutes and you’re throwing your weight round.”
This was not at all how Anthony thought he had been behaving, but he had the grace to mutter an apology. It was plain to him that Jack nursed some kind of grudge; about which he knew nothing.
It was agreed that they should all four of them go armed at all times and that other business should be suspended for the time being. Anthony suggested that a good plan might be for one of them to remain in the house and a second to be concealed in the barn, so as to be able, as he put it, “to provide flanking fire”. His brother Tom shot him a quizzical look when his baby brother lapsed into military jargon in this way. Never the less, he agreed in principle with what his brother had proposed. All four thought it best if two of them rode patrol around their land, so that they would see anybody approaching long before they reached the house.
It was two years since he had so much as touched a firearm, but there wasn’t a great deal of purpose in going on the scout without one. When he had returned from the war, Anthony had wrapped up the pistol he had carried for two years and stuck in back of the old closet in the room he had shared with Andrew as a child. His rifle, he had already disposed of, by the simple expedient of abandoning it on the train as he headed home.
The pistol was still where he had left it; wrapped in an old duster at the bottom of a tin box, in which as a boy he used to hide his treasures. It was a Metropolitan Arms copy of the 1861 Colt Navy and it had cost him a small fortune in 1863. When once he’d signed up, he had figured that it would be wise to buy the best side-arm he could afford. It had taken a good chunk of the money that he had been carrying to see him through the Michaelmas term at Harvard. Mind, it had been a good investment though, there were those who said that the Metropolitan’s version of the Navy Colt was a better weapon than the original.
Having collected his gun, Anthony went down to the kitchen to join the others, who were fiddling around with ramrods, cleaning brushes and little cans of oil; making sure that their weapons were in tip-top condition, in case their lives depended upon them. Indeed, a misfire during a gun battle could easily make the difference between life and death. Tom shifted to one side, making room for Anthony. The other three watched him curiously as he tapped out the wedge which held the barrel in place and began cleaning and oiling the weapon.
“I reckon that’s a thing you don’t get up to much out east.” observed Tom.
“Cleaning and loading a pistol?” replied Anthony, “No, you have a point there. Still, needs must when the Devil drives. You know where ma keeps the bacon fat?”
“In that jar over yonder,” said Andrew, “The little blue one.”
Anthony got up and went over to the shelf. He took the jar and then scooped out a small amount of the congealed, white fat on the tip of his finger. When he was seated again, he smeared this around the front of the chambers. Seeing his brothers’ enquiring looks, he said, “Little trick I learned. Smear of grease like this catches any sparks when you fire. Stops having one shot setting off another in the neighbouring chamber.”
“Lordy,” said Andrew, “It is a pure pleasure to hear the way you talk these days. You sounded a cut above us after them lessons with the minister, but it’s nothing to how you are since you been at college.”
“I’m the same person I ever was.” said Anthony, a little stiffly.
Before riding out with Tom, Anthony went in quietly to speak to his mother and father. His father was sitting up in the bed and looking as though he was going to pull through with no difficulty. Martha Armstrong sat at her husband’s side, holding his hand. This was such an unusual display of affection, that the young man could not help but stare at the sight. This prompted his mother to observe tartly, “What are you lookin’ at, hey? Think there’s something unnatural ‘bout a wife touching her husband so?”
“No, not a bit of it Ma,” he replied, “It’s not common to see you and my Pa so, that’s all.”
His mother sniffed, saying, “Well if you and those rascally brothers of yours hadn’t been out raising Cain, we wouldn’t be in this fix and there’d be no occasion for me to be fooling around in this way. I’d be in the kitchen cooking or out in God’s open air tending my garden. Anyways, what’s the news?”
Before her son could reply, Seth said sharply, “You’re sportin’ iron. That ain’t what I’d o’ hoped to see, not by a long chalk. What are you about?”
Anthony outlined the arrangements that he and his brothers had made, before turning to his father and asking, “That sound good to you, sir?”
His father smiled and replied, “It’s a good long spell since I was in the army, boy. Happen you’re the best one to figure things of that kind. It sorrows me though, to see you drawn into this nonsense. ”
“Are you feeling any better today?”
“I ain’t as young as once I was. When I was your age Anthony, I took a ball in my shoulder and didn’t even lay up the next day. Just carried on fighting. Now? Just a little nick like this is enough to lay me low. Don’t grow old boy, it ain’t a heap o’ fun, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
“Maybe it’s better than the alternative.” said Anthony soberly. His father thought this over for a moment before bursting into laughter; a deep, rich belly laugh which caused his wife to say anxiously,
“Lordy, Seth, hush up you old fool, You’re going to bust those stitches loose directly!”
“Better than the alternative,” said Seth Armstrong, “Yes, I like that. You got that right, boy.”
“Get along out of here now, son” said Martha, “I want this man to rest and you’re purely creating a disturbance.”
In the kitchen, the other three brothers heard the old man laughing and exchanged meaningful looks. Their father never roared with laughter in that way at anything that they ever said or did.
***
Two things were as plain as pikestaffs to Brewster Bates. The first was that any dream which he had entertained of coasting along in this job until he was able to retire in a few years, respected and wealthy, were fast vanishing over the horizon. The second was that there was going to be bloodshed before very long. The sheriff had tried to prevaricate and fob the Doolans off with soft words and then figure out later what to do about the situation, but they were having none of it.
“My wife’s laying dead back at my house, Bates,” said Doolan in a soft, but deadly, voice, “You taken my money over the years, well now I want the value of it.”
“I don’t rightly know what you’d have me do…” said Sheriff Bates hopelessly, “It’s not what I would call a clearcut case.”
“Not clearcut?” interrupted Ezra, “Is what the hell are you talkin’ about you fat bastard?”
Michael Doolan held up his hand to calm down his son. When the young man had stumbled to a halt, Doolan looked Brewster Bates straight in the eye and said, “You listen to what I say now and listen good. I know fine well it was one of the Armstrongs who killed my Susan and so do you. I don’t know which o’ them it was, but they’s all in it up their necks. You don’t ride out there this day and find the men who came by my house last night, then I’ll deal with this my way. But I tell you Bates, that happen and you’ll wish you was never born.” Without waiting for any reply, Michael Doolan signalled to his son and the two men walked out of the Sheriff’s office without uttering another word.
After the Doolans had left his office, Bates found that he was running with sweat. It was trickling down his chest and coated his forehead in an uncomfortable slick. He had sensed that it would not have taken much for the two men who had lately been in his office to explode in violence and he was glad that that at least had been averted. That Mrs Doolan was dead seemed certain. The idea that one of the Armstrongs had shot her though didn’t ring at all true to Brewster Bates. The Devil of it was of course that he was also beholden to the Armstrongs, whose cash he had been taking for years in just the way that he had been paid by the Doolans. With a heavy heart, Sheriff Bates stood up an left his office; locking the door behind him. At the very least, he supposed that he would have to ride over to the Armstrongs and see what they had to say about this. It was not an interview to which he was looking forward.
***
Tom and Anthony saw the lone rider approaching from the direction of town and at once changed tack to intercept the man. When they saw that it was Sheriff Bates, they relaxed a little, knowing that he was practically on the payroll of their family. “Hey, Brewster,” called Tom, “How’s it going, man?”
“Not so good, not so good at all. Tom, I had Mr Doolan and his boy Ezra come to see me this morning. You know his wife’s dead?”
“Susan Doolan dead?” exclaimed Tom in amazement, “Lord, no. What happened?”
“She was shot.”
“How’s that,” asked Anthony, playing his own part in the game, “An accident or what?”
“It was no accident,” said Bates, eyeing both men closely for signs that they were dissembling with him, “Three men rode up to his place last night and murdered her.”
“Murder?” said Anthony, “You see the body yet, sheriff?”
“Not yet. Why d’you ask?”
Anthony shrugged in an embarrassed way, as though diffident at putting forward his view. “Most killings are done by family members. Husbands, sons and suchlike. I just would have thought that you’d look into the circumstances before taking a man’s word about such a thing.”
Now it has to be said that Sheriff Brewster Bates was not the smartest man in the Arizona Territory; even his best friend would not have described him as being sharp as a lancet. He was however shrewd enough, with an animal cunning, and looking now at the two young men sitting there watching him carefully, Bates suddenly knew without the shadow of a doubt that they were stringing him along and knew somewhat more about this business than they were letting on.
At the moment that Bates realised that he was being lied to, he happened to look into Tom Armstrong’s face and knew that Armstrong was aware that the sheriff didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. It was an awkward moment for all parties concerned, but Brewster Bates knew that there might yet be something worse than awkwardness. Both Tom and Anthony Armstrong were wearing pistols and in addition to that, Tom had a sawn-off scattergun slung over his shoulder. There was a hard look about both of them which gave Bates to suppose that if pushed, they would not hesitate to use violence. He said casually, “Well, maybe you’re right at that. Happen I ought to look in at the Doolan place and see what I can find out there.”
Anthony said quietly, “I think that would be the smart dodge, Sheriff.”
“Well, I’ll be by later to talk some more to you boys, if that’s agreeable?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” said Tom, all amiability, “You come by for a coffee or something. I know my Pa’d be right glad to see you.”
After Bates had ridden off, Anthony said to his brother, “He knows we’re lying, I suppose you know that?”
Tom laughed. “Sure he knows. He’s a bag of wind and piss. He ain’t a goin’ to do aught about it.”
“Maybe not, but if he won’t, then Mr Doolan will. Whether the man who shot his wife is hanged or whether he’s shot down, Doolan will want his blood. One way or another, there’s a fight coming on us.”
“You ain’t ’fraid of a fight, are you baby brother?”
Anthony looked coldly at his brother and said, “I’m not afeared of anything. I’m just telling you how it will be.”
***
As they rode home from town, Mick Doolan said nothing and his son didn’t like to interrupt whatever chain of thought his Pa was following. At length, Ezra asked, “You think Bates is going to go out and arrest the Armstrongs, Pa?”
“Wouldn’t o’ thought so at all.” came the answer.
“So why’d we go to him then?”
“So’s I can tell anybody later that we tried the lawful route first, before going down the other road.”
“You got plans then, pa?”
“You might say so. I want whoever shot your Ma, strung up. An’ hanging alongside him, I want anybody as aided and abetted him, or knew what he was planning or helped him or covered up for him. I want every man who was in anywise mixed up in that killing to pay for it. If it means spillin’ every drop of my own blood, I’ll be revenged for this.”
Ezra said nothing, wondering how this would all pan out. Then his father asked, “How many o’ them fellows as works with us could we rely on, if the knife meets the bone?”
“You mean the hired hands or the men living nigh to us?”
“Both.”
“That Hogan’s as hard as they come. Always providin’ we pay him enough, I reckon he’ll stick at naught. Then there’s the Carters. Him and his boys’s mighty handy. We can rely on them. And Bill Travers, I should say we can count him in.”
“I come up with the same names myself. Add us and that gives us eight to take care of this. Might not be enough, not if them Armstrongs can rustle up help. This needs thinking on.”
Ezra Doolan, who was not precisely soft himself, was struck by his father’s iron determination and complete lack of outward show of grief. He himself had shed a few tears in the privacy of his room, but apart from that brief display of feeling, immediately after his wife was shot; his father gave the impression simply of a man with a little job of work to accomplish. God help the Armstrongs, thought Ezra, they surely don’t know what’s about to hit them.
***
Tim Hogan was a very worried man. In a straight fight; he was not scared of anything or anyone. He had only been beaten once or twice in fistfights and never at all when guns had been involved. But he was feeling distinctly uneasy on this early afternoon. The cause of his anxiety was simple. Mick Doolan was on the vengeance trail and swearing to kill with his own two hands, any man who had any part, no matter how trifling, in the death of his beloved wife. No excuses would serve, there would be no reasoning with him. Once before, Hogan had seen a man in this state of lust for revenge and on that occasion it had ended in the deaths of a dozen people. The man concerned though had taken his vengeance; even though it ultimately cost him his own life. In his waters, Hogan felt that this was a similar case and he was thinking hard of a way to extricate himself from the trap into which he had fallen.
He had nobody but his own self to thank for the predicament in which he currently found himself. There’d been no need at all to start shooting at the Armstrong boy. After all, what had it been about? A punch on the jaw and a little joshing from his fellow workers. It was nothing; less than nothing. But it had been enough to set in motion the train of events which ended in Susan Doolan’s killing and if old man Doolan found out, then he was as good as dead.
The obvious thing to do was what Tim Hogan had always done when things became a little tricky, which was to dig up and run. That wouldn’t answer in the present case, because at the first sign of anything which looked like guilt, which is what flight would inevitably suggest to Mick Doolan in his present state, the Doolans and their associates would be putting together a posse and hunting him down. No, he’d do better to stay and bluff it out, but one thing was nagging away at his mind. Had either old Seth Armstrong or that damned son of his actually caught sight of Hogan? If they had, then the fact was sure to come out at some point and his role in precipitating the violence would be out of the bag.
It was a regular conundrum and Hogan decided in the end to solve it in the way that he invariably did solve such puzzles; by the use of bloody violence. In short, he took it into his head to kill the Armstrongs, father and son, thus covering his tracks once for all.
***
After turning tail from Tom and Anthony Armstrong, Sheriff Bates thought that he might as well go on to Doolan’s place; although the good Lord knew that this was anything but an attractive prospect. He didn’t see though that he had another choice. If he didn’t report what had happened, then Mr Doolan would be coming after him and the way that gentleman had been when last he saw him, Bates didn’t especially relish the idea of Mick Doolan being ticked off with him. He was received contemptuously by the Doolans.
“They run you off their land, is that the strength of it?” asked Ezra, when the sheriff had given a halting and shamefaced account of his visit to the Armstrongs, “You just turned tail and ran.”
“No I wouldn’t o’…” began the wretched man, when Michael Doolan interrupted him, saying,
“You ain’t up to the job. Well then, I am. You just take care to stand aside and make sure you don’t interfere. You got that straight?”
“I guess…” said Brewster Bates miserably, “You got to see how I’m placed.”
“Get out of my sight, you son of a bitch!” said Mick Doolan suddenly, tiring of the fellow, “Just recollect what you been told. Stand aside and don’t concern yourself with anything.”