Joey's Revenge

CHAPTER 1

Rusty Ward was in no hurry; he let his mount peacefully graze the long fall grass, moving only occasionally to reach a fresh and tantalizing clump. He was young and still had a lot of country to see. The horse had just crested the hill when it stopped. No one could have seen any action by the rider causing the horse to stop, for there was none. The animal seemed to stop on his own to feed, and the rider appeared to go along with this decision. The spot was well chosen, for it offered a vantage point for the rider while horse and rider were well hidden. It was just over the crest of the hill, so the rider did not stick out on the skyline. The black gelding peacefully nibbled grass and waited. He knew his rider well. Over every hill, around every bend, meant a rest for the horse while the rider surveyed the new land. The owner of this horse studied every new vista. It was more than casually scanning a new scene. He studied a new country, cataloging in his mind the terrain, the plant life, the wildlife, and the effects of mankind. Wherever civilization came, it seemed nature and beauty had suffered. The young drifter had seen this land at its greatest and wanted to always remember it that way. Often he thought that he was a throw back to the trappers of the previous generation. What must it have been like to come over a hill like this and realize you were the first white man to look into a valley like the one now in front of him?

Anyone coming upon Rusty would see a saddlebum, like many that wandered the west, younger then some, cleaner then most; his hair was worn longer than the current style. But it had been washed less than a day ago. His shirt was nearly worn out, his boots run down at the heel. But that hair, that was something to behold. He washed it every morning, and let it dry by itself lying flat almost to his shoulders. Most men on the range did not consider washing that often natural. Usually, just some fresh bear grease was applied before going into town. Washing your hair was something you did on those rare occasions you got into town with enough time and money to pay for a real bath in a real bathtub. Washing it every day, and then just letting it fly, why that was unheard of.

Rusty sat looking down on a valley like many he had seen in his travels. He learned to read the country, getting more information than most would reading a book. This valley was rangeland, well tended by its owner. Even from this distance, he could see grass that had been grazed land, but not overgrazed by running too many head. A stream that wondered through the valley had many spots where cattle could be watered. For the past two days in the mountains behind him Rusty had ridden through summer pastures that must belong to this spread.

Thinking of all this Rusty figured some two thousand head had been worked on this land. The major herd was not in site, probably at the railhead or in the Chicago stock yards by now. What could be seen now were prime cattle, which would be the start of a fine new herd. All in all, it read out to be a well run spread, one like Rusty planned to have once he had seen enough of this country, and was ready to settle down. As this owner seemed to be a man worth knowing, Rusty started his horse toward the ranch house. Even here the pride of the owner showed through the white washed out buildings, the well tended vegetable garden, and the general layout. This drifter was hoping to be invited to a meal. He was sure they’d set a good table.

As he drew into the yard something struck the rider odd, and made his horse as jumpy as a yearling. Even as he dismounted, yard hens were wandering through the open door and flies were storming in and out. The house was deathly quiet, vacant. It didn’t figure that a woman who made her husband build such a big fine house would allow the farm animals to go traipsing through her front room. Certainly no one would leave their front door wide open, even if some people did leave their doors unlocked occasionally.

Hang on boy, there’s something wrong, but we’ll look into it. said in a soothing voice to settle the horse. He took a few steps forward.

Hello the house! Anybody to home? Easing his well cared for .44 to loosen it in the holster; Rusty approached the dark doorway. The smell of death was enough to gag a man. Rusty was sure some good size animal had entered the dark cool house to die. That would explain the odor and the deathly feel of the place, but not the mystery of its owners. They certainly must have left in one hell of a hurry to leave everything wide open. Maybe whatever was inside had scared them off, or worse yet, killed them.

As Rusty Ward slowly moved to the front porch, he braided himself on that silly thought. Only a small child, scared by stories of demons in the night, could believe some monstrous animal would boldly enter a big house like this and eat its occupants.

Rusty crossed the threshold and withdrew the weapon, prepared for almost anything, but it took only one look into that room to make Rusty run outside and toss up his breakfast.

Rusty had been around the west long enough that skinning an animal for meat was second nature. Bloody death was seen on the streets of most cow towns. Even a gentle, peace lovin’ man like Rusty had seen enough to make him think about the destruction men carried on their hips. But nothing could prepare Rusty for the scene that now had him kneeling on this yard, thinking his stomach was about to come out of his mouth.

After getting back the breath to stand, he led his horse to a grove of trees just off the road, far enough from the house to avoid the smell that for the rest of his life would remind him of that living room.

Rusty stopped to lean against a corral fence made of milled lumber, not just a pole corral like most folks use in the west. This was a fence you’d expect to see in Virginia or Maryland where the housing was more permanent. Mostly out west people used the material at hand and did only what was necessary to make it functional. Milling then painting wood to use for a fence seemed a low priority to most ranchers trying to establish a foothold out here. No sir, that man lying dead in there had built to stay. Staring at the back of that house, Rusty decided those bodies needed proper burying in this land they’d put the hearts into. And finally their blood.

CHAPTER 2

The trio of cowhands was heading south from the railroad at Lamer, where they’d finished a long drive. The trail boss had paid them off, but most of that had gone to the local innkeepers and their girls for a few sweaty moments upstairs. Now the three just drifted.

Hank was sort of the leader. A big man, about six foot six, he’d been down the pike and across the river a time or two. Now in his late forties, Hank had been living this trail life since he was eighteen. Equally at home on either side of the law, he realized being a ranch hand was a hell of a lot more work than holding up a bank, but the work was steady and running from the law got mighty tiring. Besides ranch work, or even trailherding was a lot easier than working a chain gang. He could testify to that personally, having been careless a time or two.

Billy Joe had been with Hank quite a while. He was kind of average size, and liked the attention he got walking into a saloon with Hank. Billy Joe was willing to put up with a lot to stay in Hank’s shadow. When it came to gun work, Billy Joe pulled his own. Fact was, he felt if he were pushed to the wall he was sure he could out draw Hank. That wasn’t something you talked about though, especially where Hank could hear.

Born and raised in South Boston, Billy Joe was new to the west. As soon as he was old enough, he joined the Merchant Marines. That ended when he had to jump ship in San Francisco about two years ago. Things had gotten a little sticky between him and a young female passenger. She was about to tell the captain about all those midnight visits to her stateroom during the voyage, and he was sure she was in a family way. An anchor tattooed on his right forearm reminded him of his seafaring days.

He met Hank shortly after leaving the ship. Billy Joe was in a crib house near the docks and had just finished with one of girls, when a ruckus started in the next room. Seems some big bloke had just beat a girl near death and the three bouncers were about to teach the oaf a lesson. Billy Joe saw a chance to get out without shelling out the fifty cents, so he joined forces with the big guy, and both managed to get out and lose themselves in the back alleys. That was two years ago and Hank and Billy Joe had been together ever since.

Jeb Heath was the youngest of the trio. In fact, he had just finished his first trail drive. When Hank and Billy Joe headed south a week after payday, Jeb just tagged along. Raised on his folk’s ranch outside Flagstaff, his pa threw him off the ranch about a year ago. Jeb’s pa was the richest man in Flagstaff, a fact which Jeb was quick to remind the townsfolk when they forgot their place. One night when a drunk refused to fetch Jeb’s horse from the livery, Jeb shot him. Mr. Heath got the charges dropped, but decided it was time for Jeb to grow up so he threw him out and told him not to return until he was a man.

The three of them had been traveling a few weeks and were about bottomed out. In the town they had stopped in yesterday, they’d heard about the Mackenzie ranch ten miles west of town. The word around town was that Mackenzie often took on men working the grub line. A hand willing to use a shovel or wield an ax could get a decent meal and a few dollars. Although none of them cottoned to work that couldn’t be done from the back of a horse, they decided to go for a look.

As the three rode up to the ranch, Bill Mackenzie was working in the corral. In there with him were a few head of horses, and he appeared to be hand feeding them oats. They looked to be a first class string of animals, but right now they looked thin and bone weary. Obviously they had recently been through the ordeal of a cattle drive or similar grueling work.

Hank as usual did most of the talking. Howdy. Could you point us in the direction of a Mr. Mackenzie partner?

I’m Bill Mackenzie, what can I do for you boys?

Well sir, we heard you might be looking for three strong backs to help out for a day or two. We ain’t expecting no permanent jobs, mind you, but we’d work mighty hard for a few days home cooking and a chance to sleep under a roof.

Hank paused while the rancher walked to the corral gate. Bill looked to be in his mid thirties, and could be taken for a hand rather than the owner of this spread.

My name’s Hank Sunday. This here’s Billy Joe Samper, and that youngster over there is Jeb Heath.

Well, Mr. Sunday as I’ve just sold off most of my herd, there isn’t a lot of riding type work. I would like to do some fixing up around here, so if you can swing a hammer, I’ll feed you and the bunkhouse is empty. Drop off your gear and come up to the house.

In the kitchen they were introduced to Mrs. Mackenzie, a pretty woman about Bill’s age. She added more bacon to the skillet as if it was not unusual to have three more people for breakfast. Over eggs and bacon and biscuits they talked of ranching and beef and such.

Bill asked his wife, Where’s Josephine? Why isn’t she eating with us?

Marsha Mackenzie looked down at her plate and said almost in a whisper, She isn’t up and dressed yet. I’ll fix her something later.

Dear, you spoil that child. Seems she could do a little work around here, instead of acting like Queen of the May.

It sounded to Hank like an argument they’d had before. He didn’t feel much like sitting through this so he tried to change the subject. Nice size spread you got here. Could run quite a few head on this ranch without crowding them none.

Mr. Mackenzie seemed eager to get back to ranch talk. He was young and had done well. He even seemed to be bragging a little when he said, "Yep, just sold off twenty-five hundred head a few days ago in Lamer. I plan to buy out the James ranch in the end of the valley. Tom was killed in a stampede last fall and the wife took the family back to Michigan.

The bank holds the land now and I figure by offering cash up front, I’ll get a good price. Thinking out loud, he said, Yes sir, take on permanent hands, I’ll have quite an empire to look over. And to pass on to my son.

Marsha, smiling at the dreamer she saw in her husband said Well your highness could you leave your kingdom long enough to go to town for me. I need a few things.

Sighing as he pushed himself up from the table, Yes Ma, I’ll go. I gotta go to the bank anyway. Minutes later Bill Mackenzie would regret that casual comment in front of the three armed strangers.

Rolling his chair on its back two legs, Hank Sunday grinned. Adding two and two he figured the bank deposit must be from the sale of the herd. The timing of stopping at this lonely ranch on this day could not have been better. With a friendly smile, and a casual manner Hank eased his revolver out to aim at Bill and whispered, "Sir, I figure you still got the herd money. Is that what your going to the bank for? To put in the money from sellin’ your herd? We’ll save you the trouble of toting it all the way into town. Why don’t you just go get that there money right now? We’ll be mighty happy to take it off your hands.

Yes sir, I figure the three of us could put that money to real good use. The room was silent as everyone stared at the Colt pointing at Mr. Mackenzie’s mid section. Billy Joe Samper, once he realized what his partner was up to, jumped from his chair to run behind the young rancher laughing to himself as he pulled his weapon.

Placing the barrel behind Bill’s right ear he whispered into his left, Yessir, Yessir, we sure could use that money, we surely could. As he continued to laugh and talk to himself his voice cracked, making it sinister and evil like a lunatic who had lost control.

Marsha could only stare in terror at the swift changes taking place in her own kitchen. This didn’t happen here. This couldn’t happen here. This was a room she loved. She enjoyed her time in this room, watching her family grow. This was her nest, her haven. Maniacs with guns didn’t belong in her life much less in her kitchen. Her husband can’t be hurt in this room. God couldn’t be so cruel.

Bill wasn’t sure who was more dangerous, the big man who sat so calmly across the table pointing a gun at him, or the racing loony jumping around on first one foot than the other like he was about to wet his pants. He was fairly certain Sunday would not kill