That night, the second after Anthony Armstrong returned from Massachusetts, three men died near Parson’s End. This is what happened.
Just after dark, Mick Doolan sat down with his two sons, Joseph having by that time returned, and between them they laid their plans. Since they were only likely to muster eight men in total and the Armstrongs might be in a position to get together at least as many, the elder Mr Doolan decided to tilt the odds in his favour a little by scaring off one or two potential supporters of the men with whom he aimed to have a reckoning. After talking the matter over with his sons, it was agreed that Jed Stone and his friend Albert were weak types who would most likely be amenable to a little pressure. They weren’t hard men, making their living chiefly by the production and sale of intoxicating liquor. Michael Doolan thought that if a half-dozen men paid them a friendly visit and gave them a warning, they would go to ground for a while and reduce the numbers on the Armstrongs’ side.
Jed Stone had his brewing apparatus and still set up in an outbuilding, which had started life as a stone-built pig pen. He had builded up the walls a little and fashioned a new roof out of brushwood and the little hut, not much bigger than a privy, functioned perfectly well as his brew house. He was fooling around in there a couple of hours after sunset, when he heard the thunder of hooves. Unless he missed his guess, there must have been at least six or seven riders coming in his direction. Stone picked up the storm lantern, by whose light he had been working, and went out to see who it was.
The horrible events of the previous night had not troubled either Jed or Albert too badly. They were phlegmatic and unimaginative types, who had seen people killed before that night. Anyway, it hadn’t been them who had pulled the trigger and, at a pinch, they had agreed with each other they could always turn state’s evidence and give away Jack Armstrong. Not that they really thought that there would be any sort of consequence from what had been done. Like most other folk thereabouts, they viewed Sheriff Bates with good-natured contempt; thinking it exceedingly unlikely that he would be able to bring home the crime to them.
The six men who rode up were obviously not part of a law posse, which was the only thing that Stone really feared. He recognised Mick Doolan and his two sons, but Brewster Bates was nowhere in evidence. It stood to reason that Doolan was likely to be aggrieved about the loss of his wife, but even so, Jed Stone failed to realise fully his peril. He said brightly, “Good evening’ Mr Doolan. What brings you out here? You lost your way?” Had he but known it, nothing was more calculated to rile the recently widowed man than this perky and light-hearted air.
“I’m here to speak to you Stone,” said Mick Doolan, “And you best listen good to what I say.”
Now at this point of course, all that Doolan was aiming for was to discourage Albert and Jed from riding against them on behalf of the Armstrongs. It was Albert who made the mortal mistake of coming out of the house and misreading the situation. He took the band of riders for a lynch mob, ready to exact vengeance for the killing of the woman the night before. He shouted in a panic-stricken voice, anxious to save his own neck, “Hell it weren’t us as opened fire. Tell him, Jed. It was that damned fool, young Armstrong.”
“Shut your mouth, for Christ’s sake,” Stone yelled back at him, appalled by his partner’s words, “They ain’t enquiring ’bout nothing.”
Michael Doolan’s eyes narrowed, but of course nobody saw that in the gloom. He said, “Who said aught about opening fire, hey? What d’you boys have to tell me?”
“Don’t you set any store by what Albert here says,” said Stone, trying desperately to keep his voice level and relaxed, “He’s been at our latest batch of poteen. It’s powerful strong and he don’t know what he’s saying after a glass or two. You want that I should draw you some to try? All you men are welcome, of course.” He smiled in a ghastly attempt to appear relaxed and sociable and not give the impression of a man in fear of his very life.
Doolan said to his sons, “Cover those bastards and shoot them if they offer any resistance. Don’t kill’em though. Just put a ball in their belly or something. I want to hear the tale they got to tell.”
“It’s not what you think,” Albert said, as Ezra and Joe Doolan dismounted and advanced upon him and Jed, “We was there, but we didn’t do nothing. It was that Jack as did it.”
“Did what?” asked Mick Doolan in a pleasant and friendly voice, “Tell me what Jack Armstrong did.”
Realising that the game was up, and inwardly cursing his friend for every sort of fool, Jed Stone spoke up, saying, “Here’s the way of it, Mr Doolan. Jack came by here last night and asked us to come out to your place. He swore he meant you no harm and we was just goin’ to put a fright in you. That’s right, ain’t it Bert?”
“Yeah, God’s honest truth, sir. We asked him, we said, ’There ain’t a goin’ to be no shooting?’ and he says to us, ’Not a bit of it boys. Just scaring ’em.’”
“So you just went with him and it was he as fired the shot, that’s the long and the short of it, hey?” asked Doolan in a voice which was friendly and encouraging.
“That’s it, yeah. That’s all,” said Stone, “We never would o’ come if we’d o’ suspicioned that he meant mischief, would we Albert?”
“Hell, no. We ain’t that type at all, you know that, Mr Doolan.”
“Sure,” said Doolan softly, “I know that,” he turned to the men at his side and said, “Hang them. They was part of it.”
“But you can’t,” cried Albert in terror, “You can’t hang us for just being there. It ain’t, it ain’t just!”
“Hang them!” repeated Michael Doolan.
Both men died hard, kicking out their lives at the end of the ropes which Doolan and his men had thoughtfully made sure to bring with them; just on the off-chance that they would be needed. When Stone and his friend were dead, Mr Doolan senior directed his men to torch the cabin and smash up the still, spilling all the moonshine on the ground. It seemed like a wicked waste to the other men, but it was clear that this was not the time nor the place to get crosswise to the old man.
Tim Hogan, who was one of the party which hanged the two moonshiners exulted as they were strung up from the tree which grew by their cabin. Perhaps these deaths would go some way to assuaging his employer’s wrath. Even so, he thought that it would still be smart move to silence Seth Armstrong and the fellow he now knew was his youngest son. The mood that Doolan was in and the ruthless way that he had disposed of the two men hanged that night were confirmation that running off would be the worst possible move for Hogan to take. No, he’d best try and kill those Armstrongs without telling anybody and then be sure to stay alongside that mad bastard Mick Doolan as he wrought whatever other vengeance he had in mind.
As far as Michael Doolan was concerned, they had done a good night’s work. He dismissed the men who had rode with him and helped to hang Jed and Albert. “It won’t be forgot,” he told these men before they left to go to their homes, “I owe you boys a big debt and I’m a man who believes in paying his obligations. I’ll recollect what you done for me this day, never fear.”
As he rode home with his sons, Doolan asked them, “Well, how d’you read it? You think Jack Armstrong acted on his own?”
“Without his pa knowing of it?” asked Ezra, “I wouldn’t o’ said so. What d’you think, Joe?”
“No, not in a thousand years. Mark what I say, this was Seth Armstrong and his boys together. Jack was sent.”
“That’s pretty much the way I figure it too,” said their father, “That Jack, he’s not the one to take on a job like that, not ’less he was instructed in it.”
The three of them rode on for a while in silence, before Joseph Doolan said, “So what’s next, Pa? We take Jack Armstrong by his self? Or you want that we take out the whole nest of ’em and burn down their house?”
“I’m goin’ to think on it, son. But we ain’t doing anything more ‘til your Ma, God rest her, is decently buried. Then we’ll have us a reckoning.”
***
After Tim Hogan and the other men separated from the Doolans, he waited a decent interval before announcing his intention to go to town; claiming that he had an assignation with some girl. The killing of Jed Stone and Albert had sobered all those who had had a hand in the affair and Hogan’s news was not greeted with the usual ribaldry that any mention of a young woman might have been expected to produce. Instead, the others just grunted and carried on their way when Hogan split off and headed across country in the general direction of Parson’s End.
There wasn’t what you might call a definite plan in Hogan’s head; several possibilities had presented themselves to him. One of these was that the family would still be up and about, but indoors, moving about in a relaxed fashion. If that was the case, then he might be able to creep up to the house, smash a window and start shooting in at the men he hoped to kill. If that was to be how things went, then he could jump on his horse afterwards and then gallop off before anybody had a chance even to get their horses tacked up. Another, but less attractive idea entailed scouting round and then coming back the following night and hiding near the house. Then, when the men he was seeking came out early in the morning, he could gun them down unawares. His trip to the Armstrong house was really a probing exercise, to see what the best way of accomplishing his end might be.
As it happened, Tim Hogan didn’t have the opportunity to put into execution either of the tentative schemes which he was hatching. As he rode across the fields which surrounded the Armstrongs’ house, he had no idea that he was already under observation. Andrew Armstrong was patrolling the hayloft of the barn which stood near the house; constantly scanning in all directions to make sure that nobody would take them by surprise. It had been agreed with his brothers that a rifle shot would be the signal that a number of men were coming down on the house. If it was just one man though, he had said that he’d play it by ear.
Cradled in his arms, Andrew Armstrong had a Sharp’s 0.52 carbine, which he had picked up after the war from a discharged soldier. He was a rare shot with this weapon, using it principly for hunting game for the pot. The barn was becoming more than a little dilapidated and there were planks missing or rotted in half on all points of the compass. This meant that Andrew could stroll from side to side, peering out into the night. His ears were keen and he knew that he’s be able to pick up the sound of horses long before he saw them. It was while he was looking north that he heard the sound of a horse cantering through the darkness. It was, as far as Andrew could gauge, a mile from him.
This was the second curious incident of Armstrong’s lonely watch. Maybe a half hour earlier, he had become aware of a ruddy glow above the hills to the east. If he was any judge of such matters, then he would say that there was a pretty large fire raging over in that direction and since there were no forests out that way, this probably meant that some poor devil’s house was burning. It was hard to be sure, but at a guess, Andrew Armstrong would say that the blaze was right where he’d place Jed Stone’s cabin. He had a terrible foreboding that the fighting had already begun while he was walking about up here in the hay loft. He only hoped that neither Tom nor Anthony was caught up in it. But then if that had been the case, surely he would have heard the sound of shooting?
The sound of the thudding hooves in the distance stopped abruptly and Andrew Armstrong strained to see if he could catch any sound from that direction. Then he caught the plodding rhythm of a horse walking, but still coming towards him. This was exceedingly suspicious and he tried to reason out the case to himself. It surely wasn’t Anthony and Tom, because they were staying together. If some emergency had arisen and one or the other of the pair were returning to the house alone, then they would have no reason to suddenly slow down like that. It suggested, to Andrew’s alert mind, subterfuge and cunning. He pulled back the hammer of the Sharp’s and pointed it into the darkness.
According to Hogan’s reckoning, the Armstrong house should be just over the next rise of ground. It was a pity that there was only a crescent moon; which made it difficult to pick out detail. But there, the house was a half mile ahead of him. His sense of direction hadn’t played him false. There were lamps lit in two of the windows, which gave him to hope that his idea of shooting folk through the window might just come off. He certainly hoped so, because the sooner he had managed to kill Seth Armstrong and his youngest son, the sooner he would sleep easy in his own bed.
Uncertain though the light was, Andrew saw the shadowy silhouette of a rider comeing over the crest. There was only one, which to his mind ruled out its being one of his brothers. As he watched, the man dismounted and began to walk his horse straight towards the barn. Resting his rifle on the plank which delineated the bottom of one of the holes in the wall of the barn, Andrew Armstrong squinted down the barrel. It was hopeless; he could barely see anything in this light. He would just have to hope and pray that whoever was walking slowly in the direction of the house stopped for a spell, so that he could get a proper bead on him.
It wasn’t until he was nearly at the barn, which loomed up ahead of him that Hogan knew for sure what he had it in mind to do. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. He would set a fire at the side of the Armstrong house and then wait ‘til the occupants came running out to deal with it and then shoot them down. He smiled in the darkness at the idea. Well, it would do no harm at all to pause for a minute to have a smoke, before putting the scheme into execution. Luckily, he had the makings about him. Hogan took out his tobacco pouch and fumbled around for papers. When he’d rolled the cigarette, he fished around for a Lucifer and then lit it with his thumbnail. Just as the flaring, sulphurous , blue flame illuminated his face, destroying his night-vision, a voice came from right overhead. “Throw down your weapons if you want to live!”
Much as Tim Hogan wished to live, he trusted no living man to keep his word and so, rather than putting up his hands or anything of that kind, he made to pull his rifle from where it reposed in the buckskin scabbard at front of the saddle. His hand never even touched the weapon, before there was a sharp crack over head and a ball passed down through Hogan’s chest, shattering the collar bone on the way, before rupturing his heart. He was, too all intents and purposes, dead by the time he hit the ground.
Two miles away, Anthony and Tom Armstrong heard the shot and reined in, hoping that their ears had deceived them and they were neither of them right in supposing that the shot had come from the direction of their home. It was already plain to the pair of them that there was mischief afoot that night. Like Andrew, they had seen the flickering light over towards Jed Stone’s place. They had been making their way cautiously in that direction when they heard the shot.
“What d’you say?” asked Tom, “Think that came from the house?”
“I’d say so,” replied his brother, “We best get back.”
“I’m mighty glad that Andrew and Jack are there, keeping an eye on ma and pa.”
They turned and began trotting their horses homewards. There was no percentage in cantering, let alone, galloping, through the pitch darkness which enveloped them. The fact that had been no more shooting encouraged them to think that Andrew had simply signalled them, as agreed, by firing into the air. With luck, they would be there in time to lend a hand with whatever it was that had alarmed their brother.
Jack came haring out of the house, holding a pistol in one hand and a storm lantern in the other. Andrew called down, “Mind what you’re about. Don’t you go shooting me when I come down.”
“What’s to do? Somebody coming?”
“Not any more,” replied his brother dryly, “Come, shed a little light round the other side o’ the barn.”
They found Tim Hogan laying dead. His mare had at first been spooked by the gunfire, but had now returned and was nudging at the corpse with her head. “You recognise him?” asked Andrew.
“Yeah, that’s Hogan. He’s the one that Anthony said he’s had a run-in with, day he stepped off the stage. He’s Doolan’s man.”
Andrew, who was a little near-sighted, bent down and peered harder at the corpse. “So it is! Well, that’s no great loss.”
The two of them were dragging Hogan’s body into the barn when Anthony and Tom rode up. Having apprised them of the situation, Anthony said, “Either of you two see flames over yonder? Nigh to Jed Stone’s cabin?”
“I saw ’em,” said Andrew, “Figured it was Stone’s place as well. You think Mick Doolan might o’ paid him a visit?”
“I’d call it a racing certainty.” said Anthony soberly.
Martha Armstrong came out to see what all the fuss was about. Anthony noted with amusement that his mother had a little muff pistol clutched in her hand. She said, “Well, you boys kill somebody or what?”
“It’s not a pretty sight, ma,” said Anthony gently, “You best let us handle it.”
“Gentle sight, nothing,” she said irritably, “Who is it? One of the Doolan boys?”
“No, it’s one of their hands.”
Their mother walked a little way into the barn and stared dispassionately at the corpse laying there on the dusty floor. “Well, I hope you ain’t aimin’ for to leave it there for good,” she remarked, “Last I heard, killing folk is still against the law. You don’t want to leave evidence all over the place.”
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” said Tom admiringly. Like his brothers, he never ceased to be amazed at his mother and the reserves of common sense and courage which she brought forth whenever necessary. “How’s Pa?”
“On the mend. He wants to go by Michael Doolan’s house to make the peace.”
“God almighty,” exclaimed Anthony in horror, “It’s not to be thought of. I hope you told him so?”
“Never mind taking the Lord’s name in vain,” said his mother, “Of course I told him. I ain’t sure he completely knows what’s happened.” She turned and went back into the house.
Tom said, “We’re goin’ to have to fix this up, ’fore Pa’s up and about. One way or another, we got to put a stop to this business.”
“I thought I’d ride over to Jed tomorrow,” said Anthony, “See if we’re right about that fire. Then, I guess I’d better go into town and speak to that famous sheriff of ours.”
“Brewster? What the hell d’you think that useless article can do to help?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t know. Nothing. Most likely. But I’m worried that if things go on down this road, then there’s no telling what will be the result.”