The next morning, Anthony and Andrew rode over to where Jed Stone lived, to see if they had been right about the source of last night’s fire. Although they were quite prepared to find his cabin a smouldering ruin, they were both taken aback to find the two bodies swaying gently in the morning breeze.
“Jeez,” said Tom, “That’s the hell of a thing. I never expected they’d go that far.”
Anthony shrugged and then dismounted. He said, “What would you have? Mr Doolan was dead set on finding out who killed his wife. Can’t say as I blame him. She was a wonderful, sweet woman.”
Tom Armstrong stared at his brother for a few seconds, without saying anything. Then he ventured, “You ain’t backing out on us, are you? I mean you’re still with us on this?”
“I’m with you and the others to the death. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry about what befell Susan Doolan. Tell me, what dealings did you have with these boys?”
“They took care of horses for us. Why?”
“You know where they kept them?”
Tom looked puzzled. “Yeah, little gully away up there.”
Anthony rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “I’m going to take these bodies into town and set them down outside Brewster Bates’ office. I want to show people where things are heading and make sure that they know it’s not all our doing, the killing and so on I mean.”
“Don’t see the good o’ that.”
“Bates might be a useless fool, but he’s still the law. If folk see that he’s not up to dealing with this sort of thing, then they might not take it so ill when we take our own action. After all, you fellows got to go on living here even after I’ve gone back to law school.”
Tom thought this over and then said, “Meaning, you think we’re going to end up in a shooting match with the Doolans?”
“What else? You think a man’s going to see his wife shot through the face and die in front of him and then not seek to kill all those who were mixed up in it? Listen, he hanged these two, you got to know that he’s got Jack’s name. You want we should hand over our brother to Mr Doolan?”
“Hell, no!”
“Well then, we have to be ready to defend him. You asked if I was backing out, I might say the same to you. This isn’t going to end with both us and the Doolans still standing.”
Hearing the setup laid out so plain, sent an involuntary shiver through Tom Armstrong’s frame. He was no sort of coward, but nor did he relish getting into a fight to the death with a bunch of determined men like this. He said to his brother, “You got the lion’s share of the brains in this here family. Can’t you see any way out of this?”
“Not when it’s got this far, I can’t.”
Andrew and Jack were surprised and not a little disconcerted when their two brothers fetched up back at the house with two ponies in tow, on each of which was roped a dead body. Because they were both hanging face down, the identities of the corpses was not immediately apparent. Andrew said, “Where’d you pick them up? It ain’t any of the Doolans, I suppose?”
Jack went up and took a closer look at the bodies, lifting each head up by the hair and peering into their faces. He turned to Andrew and said, “It’s not Doolans. This here’s Jed Stone and his partner.”
“What’s the game?” asked Andrew. When Anthony had outlined his thinking, Andrew nodded slowly, saying, “There’s sense in the scheme, I’ll allow. Else Mick Doolan’ll be putting it all around town that we’re a bunch o’ man-killers and he’s pure as the driven snow. It’s a smart idea.”
Turning to Jack, Anthony said, “You can bet what you will that these two told Doolan before they died, who fired the shot that killed his wife. I don’t think you’d better show your face in town until we’ve dealt with this, once for all.”
Jack looked disposed to argue the point, taking it ill that his younger brother should attempt to set a limit upon his movement in this way, but both Tom and Andrew chipped in and told him that he shouldn’t stir far from the house.
Before he set off for town, Anthony said, “We’ll be wanting to get shot of that body in the barn. I was thinking of that old sinkhole, away over towards the river. The one we used to say was bottomless.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “That’s the very thing. We’ll see to it while you’re away. You sure you want to go alone? Wouldn’t rather make it a family trip?”
“I can handle myself. I don’t need help.” The quiet and confident way that this was said, might have sounded like boasting or bravado coming from another man. His brothers though knew that Anthony was stating no more than the simple and unadorned truth. He very likely could handle anything by his own self.
Michael Doolan rode into Parson’s End early that morning with his son Ezra; leaving Joseph to take charge of matters at the house. He knew that it was time to make arrangements for his wife’s funeral.
There were only two churches in Parson’s End; the Presbytarian and the Catholic. The Doolans were, in name at least, Catholic and it was accordingly to Father Docherty’s house alongside the church that they directed their steps when they reached town. The rumour was already circulating about Susan Doolan’s untimely death and so Father Docherty was not all that surprised to see the Doolans, father and son, walking up his path. His housekeeper opened the door and showed the visitors into the parlour.
Michael Doolan was not a man to waste words in pointless parley. He said to the priest, “You know why we’re here?”
“I can guess. It’ll be about your poor dear wife.”
“Yes, she was a regular worshipper at your church, father. I’m hoping that you can give her a fine send-off.”
The elderly priest made a clicking noise with his tongue, suggestive of irritation. “I wouldn’t know what you mean by a fine send-off, Mr Doolan. I’ll certainly be glad to give a good, Catholic mother and wife a Christian burial, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is.”
“Well then, will tomorrow suit or would you be wanting time to invite relatives from further afield?”
“Tomorrow will be grand.”
Neither Michael Doolan nor his son had shown any inclination to sit. Nor did they display any desire to stay longer, now that the business had been taken care of. Father Docherty though had a few words that he wished to say and he did so without more ado. He said, “I’m hearing a story that you might be seeking vengeance for your wife’s death. I’m hopeful that there’s not a word of truth in such a tale?”
Neither of the men standing before him replied. Father Docherty continued, “You’ll be recollecting what the Good Book teaches us about private vengeance? It never tends to the good. Your wife was a God-fearing woman and I’ll be honoured to conduct the rites for to inter her. But I can tell the both of you now that if you go straight from the mass for your wife’s repose with murder in your hearts, then you’ll be in a state of mortal sin. Do you hear what I say?”
“What time can you carry out the funeral tomorrow?” asked Michael Doolan, his face impassive.
“Would one be agreeable? Will you see that your wife’s remains are conveyed here early in the morning?”
When the two Doolans had left the house, Father Docherty stood by the window, watching them walk down the path and towards Main Street. If ever there was a man determined upon bloody revenge, he thought to himself, then that man is Michael Doolan, God rest his soul.
The arrival in town of Anthony Armstrong, accompanied by two corpses, caused something of a stir in Parson’s End. So far, the only thing that was known in the town was that Susan Doolan had been killed; allegedly by the Armstrongs, or somebody acting on their behalf. This at least was the story which had been doing the rounds among drinkers at the Lucky Lady. Brewster Bates had intimated as much to one or two associates and they had spread the news far and wide. Mrs Doolan had been a popular figure in town, always about some charitable work or other and news of her murder had created a certain amount of indigantion. All else apart, the killing of any woman was regarded with loathing and detestation. Now, it appeared that there might be another side to the matter.
Anthony Armstrong had always been seen as the most respectable of the Armstrong boys and seeing him walking his horse down Main Street with two ponies following him, each laden with a dead body, was no common sight. People called each other out of stores to come and see the strange spectacle. When he reached the Sheriff’s office, Anthony reined in his horse and dismounted. Then, in a leisurely and unhurried manner, he pulled a knife from his saddle-bag and cut the ropes securing the bodies onto the back of the ponies. Having done this, he picked up first one corpse and then another; setting them down neatly on the sidewalk, right outside Brewster Bates’ office. Anybody hoping to walk along the boardwalk past the Sheriff’s office, would now be obliged either to step over two corpses or make a detour into the road.
A small crowd gathered to watch this singular event; they stood there in the road as though this was some sort of entertainment, like a circus act. The corpses of Jed Stone and Albert presented a ghastly aspect; their faces blackened and engorged with blood. It was plain that they had died hard. When he was sure that nobody walking down Main Street would be likely to pass by without becoming aware of the late lamented moonshiners, Anthony addressed the group of spectators in this way;
“You folk might have been hearing a lot of lies about my family. Well, here’s the truth of it. Those two men, neighbours of ours and good friends, were lynched last night. My own father is laying in bed this minute, his life in the balance, because some cowardly assassin shot him down while he was tending to his own business on his own land. Me and my family aren’t the villains here. We just want to get on with out lives, but we won’t let anybody push us around either. I’m telling you all, that we want peace, but if we’re pushed, we’ll fight back.”
This speech had a great effect on those who heard it. Nobody had ever heard any bad of young Anthony Armstrong and if what he said was true, then perhaps they had been a little hasty to take at face value what those Doolans were putting about. This was precisely the idea that Anthony had hoped to get over and he felt quite pleased with himself. That was until Sheriff Bates came out of his office to see who was speechifying in the public highway and nearly tripped over one of the two corpses laying right outside his door.
“What the devil…” exclaimed Bates, looking down at the obstruction which had almost sent him flying, “What’s the meaning of this?”
Anthony said, in a voice which was meant to be heard by all those standing round and watching the show, “The meaning of it is, sheriff, that there’s been two men lynched and I brought them here so that you can give them justice.”
With that, the young man turned on his heels and walked off to where he had tethered his horse on the hitching post. He found himself facing Michael and Ezra Doolan, who had seen the commotion outside the sheriff’s office and come to see what was going on. Upon seeing them, Anthony forgot about his horse and walked over to his nearest neighbours. He said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Doolan. I visited with your wife just lately and I’m truly sorry for what has befallen her. But me and my family had no part in it.”
Both the Doolans knew this to be a barefaced lie and the older of the two men said, “I’ve nothing to say to you or any o’ your family, leastways, not ’til my dear wife is in the ground. Then I’ll be at your disposal, don’t you worry about that.”
“You mean to serve me as you served Jed Stone? There’s his body, over yonder by Sheriff Bates’ door. You want to swear to these people,” Anthony indicated the crowd with a wave of his hand, “That you had no part in Stone’s death? Just tell them, if you will.”
This was too much for Ezra Doolan, whose hand moved towards the holster at his hip. His father’s hand snaked out, grabbing his son’s wrist. Then he looked Anthony straight in the eyes and said once more, “I’ve nothing to say to you.” Upon which, he and his son walked away, taking no further notice of either Anthony, nor the bunch of people who were watching avidly, wondering if there was about to be gunplay.
Sheriff Bates was not a happy man after witnessing the exchange between young Armstrong and Mr Doolan. He went over to where Anthony was now untying his horse and said, “I got a crow to pluck with you, young fellow.”
“What would that be, sheriff?”
“I don’t rightly know all that’s going on between you and the Doolans, but I’ll thank you not to bring it to this town. This is a peaceful place and I aim to keep it that way.”
“Are you going to investigate Jed Stone’s death?”
“I don’t need you to teach me my job. I know what I’m about.”
“Well, that’s a mercy!” said Anthony quietly, as he adjusted the stirrup and vaulted onto the back of one of his horse. He didn’t ride off at once, but sat there for a moment, gazing down at Brewster Bates. Then he said, “My family don’t want any trouble. You warn the Doolans to steer clear of us and we’ll all be happy.” Having delivered himself of this parting shot, he set his horse trotting along Main Street, the two ponies in tow.
As he rode home, Anthony Armstrong felt moderately satisfied with what he had achieved that morning. It would not do his family any good at all to be seen in the character of ruthless killers; killers of a woman, into the bargain. After all, they still had to trade in the town and continue to live in the district. His little exhibition that morning had surely been enough to sow seeds of doubt in the minds of those living in Parson’s End, as to which of the two families was really the wronged party in this present dispute. With luck, people would decide that there was nothing to choose between them and just write off the short spate of killings as an abberation. That was fine; his mother, father and brothers could then live it down until it was all forgotten.
He felt a little bad about lying to Mr Doolan’s face like that, after the man had suffered such a grievous loss, but that couldn’t really be helped. His first loyalty was to his own kin. It was while musing in this way, that he reached home, to find that everything was quiet there.
Meeting Anthony in town like that had served only to confirm Michael Doolan’s suspicion that the entire Armstrong family were involved in his wife’s murder. He knew nothing at all about the shooting of Seth Armstrong, other than what the man’s sons had been saying, and for all he knew to the contrary, the whole thing was a pack of lies. He would never now learn the truth of the matter and discover that it was his own hired man who had started this whole train of events in motion.
As far as Doolan was concerned, all the Armstrongs were in this together; even young Anthony, who he had hitherto regarded as being innocent of involvement. Now, Michael Doolan thought it likely that the young man’s visit to see his wife, just a few short hours before she had been killed, was part and parcel of some plan devised by Seth Armstrong. He knew now which of the brothers had actually pulled the trigger, but in his own mind, they were all culpable and every one of them would pay the price for what had been done.
It was in this grim frame of mind that Doolan reached his own home. Ezra hadn’t said much on the way back from town. His father suspected, quite rightly, that his son was not wholeheartedly behind the plan that was being hatched, but he knew also that Ezra and Joe would, when it came down to it, go along with whatever their father suggested. That was what family meant.
The day before, Doolan had sent one of his hands riding over towards the New Mexico Territory. From time to time, the Doolans traded with a band of Comancheros who operated thereabouts. Men of that stamp were not commonly found so far west, but this bunch had made it a little hot for themselves elsewhere and so had drifted over towards Arizona until things had cooled down a mite.
Now although comancheros were in the usual way of things ready to engage in all types and degrees of villainy, they tended to avoid getting up to their tricks in districts where there were regular peace officers or settled communities. There was good reason for this. What might perhaps be overlooked in the wild country of New Mexico, where the only law might be a hundred miles distant, would not be tolerated where there were decent folk living. These fellows had a healthy respect for vigilance committees and the like and took good care not to hazard their necks by falling foul of a lynching party.
In this case though, matters would be quite different. They were being invited to come and stay on Doolan’s land and given to understand that there would be an opportunity for looting a prosperous spread and carrying off whatever livestock, portable goods and money was to be found. In return, they needed only to help kill five men; which was, as one might say, all in a day’s work for such individuals.
Davy Frobisher, the fellow that had been to carry word to the comancheros was hanging about the yard, waiting to deliver the answer of the men he’d been to see. Frobisher wasn no weakling of coward, but those men had set the fear of God into him. They’d been polite enough, even friendly, but Frobisher hadn’t felt like hanging around in that camp not once he’d given his message and received the answer. He guessed that the men were well aware what effect they had upon visitors, because as he turned to ride off, he’d heard a couple of mocking chuckles. There’d been times in his life when Davy Frobisher had fought men for considerably less than laughing at him like that. He felt no inclination though to take affront with any of those fellows, simply urging his horse into a trot and then almost at once a canter; so anxious was he to put a bit of distance between him and those comancheros.
“Well?” said Doolan, when he caught sight of Davy Frobisher, “What’s the answer?”
“They say they’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. Said they’re right glad to oblige you.”
Michael Doolan turned to his son and said quietly, “Well, that about settles the business, I should say. Those men as helped us settle those fellows last night, they won’t follow me much further. Bunch o’ milksops! Those hangings was the most I can expect of ‘em. Not to fret. I’ve had dealings with those comancheros before. They’re by way of being customers of mine.”
“You want that me and Joe should take… Ma to the church tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, that’s the idea. I’d o’ liked to have those who killed her under the ground before she was herself buried, but it can’t be helped. I tell you now, Seth Armstrong and his boys won’t be more than a few days behind your Ma in goin’ under ground. Mind, I think they’ll be spending eternity in a less pleasant place than your ma, God rest her.”
Seth Armstrong had insisted on rising from his bed and was walking about as though nothing had happened when Anthony got back from town. Tom caught Anthony’s eye and shook his head in despair. What was even worse was that their father was talking once more of riding over to the Doolans and trying to straighten out what he called, “this foolish misunderstanding”. It was clear that the old man wasn’t about to take any heed of what Tom, Andrew and Jack said, so Anthony thought it would do no harm if he attempted to tackle things here, before they spiralled out of control. He said, “Pa, you need to be resting. That wound’s going to open up again if you’re not careful.”
“Stop fussing,” said his father, “You’re like a bunch of women.”
“I’m sure Ma says the same thing. You need to take things easy for a spell. Just a week or so. Why not get back to bed and me and the others will do what’s needful?”
Martha Armstrong was hovering by the range, her face drawn with anxiety and worry. Her husband said, “I don’t rightly know what you boys have been up to to upset old Mick Doolan, but I have to make it up with him. We were always good friends. I can’t think what’s gone wrong.”
It sounded to Anthony, and his brothers later confirmed it, that their father had forgotten about the feud with the Doolans which had been going for some time before this. Seth Armstrong evidently had it in mind that he and Doolan were great chums and it needed only a few words together for them to settle whatever silly misunderstanding had arisen.
“Pa, things have gone too far for that,” said Anthony gently, “His wife’s dead. He’s looking for revenge.”
“Susan Doolan dead?” asked his father, a look of genuine distress upon his face, “Why that’s terrible. Just terrible. All the more reason I should go see Mick. I must offer my condolences.”
It struck Anthony that short of binding his father hand and foot, there was little they could do to stop him from embarking upon a course of action which would certainly result in his death. Cunningly, he said, “It would be no kindness to disturb Mr Doolan at such a time. The family are in mourning, you know. Tell you what, why not wait until after the funeral, when they’ll be receiving visitors again. That makes more sense.”
Even as a child, Anthony had had the knack of sweet-talking the old man and he rejoiced to see that his words were working to some effect. His father looked undecided, until Martha added her two cents worth, saying, “The boy’s right, Seth. It’d be no kindness to go there now, stirring up strife. Let it be, until after the funeral.”
“Well, happen you’re both right,” said Seth Armstrong, “But the second the family are receiving visitors again, that’s where I’m bound. You can bet on it.”