Texas Blood Feud. Dusty Richards

after reading it. “This sure ain’t no large fine farm. It’s a patch of grass and mesquite in north Texas with some pear thrown in.”

      “Heavens, she’ll think that’s fruit,” Reg said. “Prickly pear cactus beds.”

      “I wish I could be here.” J.D. spread his arms out. “And she comes over the rise to the east in that buckboard and for the first time feasts her eyes on this dump. ‘Otto, Otto.’ She elbows him. ‘Give me de train fare to go home.’”

      Chet blew on his coffee and chuckled. Those two were more than funny at times. He could recall laughing in his own house growing up—but since he’d turned seventeen, there had not been much fun coming from that place. He’d be thirty-one in May. Had it been almost fourteen years already?

      He scrubbed his bristled mouth on his palm. Time sure flew.

      “You ever plan to marry?” J.D. asked.

      “Oh, if I can find the right woman.”

      “You going to serenade her, too?”

      “If it suits the occasion and I can find a drunk Mexican fiddler.” They all three laughed.

      The storm passed in the night, but the clear sky before dawn was cold as an iceberg. Everyone put on their second shirt over the first for warmth and wore a slicker to break the wind. The sweet-smelling apple-raisin crisp was cooked and cooling in the oven for the newlyweds, along with a note wishing them the best and a thanks for the shelter in the storm.

      Late afternoon, they located the cavy spread out grazing across a wide basin. Sitting abreast on their horses atop a rise, Chet looked for campfire smoke, but the strong gusts they faced wouldn’t let any traces stay long.

      “Think they’ve abandoned them?” J.D. asked.

      “Naw,” Chet said, still searching around. “This cold’s disheartened them is all. They’re hunkered down somewhere near here, I’d bet, keeping warm.”

      “Disheartened me and I ain’t stole nothing,” Reg said.

      “Freezing their asses off is the right thing.” J.D. huddled in his raincoat.

      “We better split up. Try to not let them see you if you do locate them. We’ll all meet back here in the next hour.” He checked the sun. That would leave them some daylight if they found the rustlers.

      Reg went north, Chet rode west, and J.D. took the south side of the basin. Finding nothing but a few of the horses, Chet rode back in the long shadows and sun rays that glowed red over the tops of the mesquite and grass heads. He spotted Reg’s horse standing hipshot and the boy squatted down out of the wind.

      When he rode up to him, Reg shook his head. “Nothing. Sure wish J.D.’d get back.”

      Chet dismounted, and saw J.D. coming in a long trot standing in the stirrups. He could tell by the look on his face that the boy’d found something.

      “They’ve got a dugout about mile or so up a side draw.” J.D. pointed behind him. “I seen the paint hobbled up there. They’re in that dugout sure enough.”

      “We waiting till morning?” Reg asked.

      “I try not to put off the things I dread doing,” Chet said with a grim set to his jaw. The next thirty minutes would be tough. Two boys would become men.

      They mounted up, drew out their rifles, and loaded the breeches. Not a word was said. They rode close together. Hats pulled down. The sharp wind had stopped being a factor—capturing the rustlers was all Chet had on his mind.

      J.D. pointed to the draw. Chet nodded and turned Roan that way. He could see the crude log end of the dugout and the board door—probably cut from some old wagon flooring. They dismounted, and the boys stuck their Winchesters in their scabbards and drew their six-guns. His Colt in his fist, he nodded in approval. This would be the test—he didn’t want to think about what or who they’d find inside—he steeled himself, leading the way.

      No sign of anyone, but he could smell the sharp smoke from the rusty stovepipe. It reminded him of being warm again. He put a finger to his lips for the boys to be quiet. Both nodded, but he could see the tension in their eyes. They stole closer.

      He reached the side of the door and eased the drawstring. He felt it lift the bar. Then he jerked it open on wobbling leather hinges and stuck the cocked revolver in first. “Hands up or die!”

      “Huh?”

      “What the hell?”

      “Don’t go for a thing,” he said, looking down the barrel at the shocked face of the Reynolds boy in the candlelight. He couldn’t see much more than silhouettes of the other two. This was the moment when things could become a mess. “Come out on your hands and knees and fast or I’m going to start shooting.”

      “We’re coming,” Hines growled.

      When they went past him coming outside in the twilight, Chet saw Hines’s hate-filled glare. He also recognized the third man, a drifter, Dab Stevens.

      “How—how did you find us?” Roy Reynolds asked, holding his hands high, standing on his knees in the dirt.

      “Your tracks, stupid,” Reg said in disgust.

      Soon, the rustlers were outside on their knees in the dying light, holding up their hands as the two boys disarmed them. Then the two brothers shoved them down one at a time and tied their hands behind their backs. Colt ready, Chet covered them until the tying process was over.

      “Now, on your feet. There’s some cottonwoods about a quarter mile north on that creek. J.D., you and Reg saddle their horses and bring them. Get that hemp rope, too.”

      “You ain’t going to hang us?” Reynolds asked in a high-pitch voice.

      “Hell, yes, they are,” Hines said, scowling in disgust at the boy’s whining.

      “Aw, hell, I just came along—”

      “Well, you gawdamn sure came along with the wrong ones,” Reg said, and started with his brother for their horses.

      “Can we cut a deal?” Hines asked over his shoulder as Chet marched them north in the fading light.

      “Better make one with your Maker. I ain’t cutting none.”

      “You and I’ve been crossways before, Byrnes.”

      “I can’t recall it. Besides, this ain’t about nothing from the past. See those horses scattered all over out there? Those are my horses—you boys stole them.”

      “Yeah, but we—” Reynolds sounded ready to cry.

      “Aw, shit, buck up, kid. The sumbitch’s got his mind made up. Talking and crying ain’t going to change it,” Stevens said.

      “Yeah, but I ain’t ready to—”

      “Just shut up!”

      Chet made them sit on the ground under the rustling cottonwoods while he waited for the horses. The wind hadn’t cut down much, and the temperature was dropping in the twilight without the sun’s warmth. When the two boys arrived with the mounts, he took the hemp rope from Reg and began to build a noose. J.D. guarded the prisoners. Reg watched how Chet built the noose and then he made one. Then in the faded light, Chet tied the last noose. His fingers were cold and close to trembling. The knot in his throat was hard to swallow.

      Reg held the paint while Chet stood on the saddle and tied the nooses on the limb. The three loops were at last in place so the condemned rustlers’ feet could not touch the ground when they dropped down. One by one, Chet and Reg placed the rustlers on their horses, which J.D. held by the bridles. The nooses were drawn up on their throats and the knots set beside their left ears for what Chet hoped would be a quick death by snapping their necks.

      “You got anything to say?” he asked.

      “I don’t want to die,”