Death Is the Hunter

Chapter 1

Little Bit Morgan pulled his gray gelding to a halt at the top of a gentle rise, took off his hat, and waved it in the air to signal the six riders following a short distance behind. There’s a farmhouse up ahead, he said when they caught up to him. He put his hat back on, carefully cocking it just so. The black wide-brim hat with a silver chain around the flat crown was his pride and joy.

Good, Webb Jarrett said to Bevo Rooks, who was riding beside him on the dusty Texas trail. We’ll stop and get some of this grit outta our throats.

These horses is plum wore out, Bevo said. If we don’t rest ’em pretty soon, we’ll be walkin’ to Injun Territory. The horses had been ridden hard in the gang’s race to beat a sheriff’s posse to the Red River. At nine o’clock that morning they had held up the new bank in the little town of Sherman, leaving a teller dead, shot down when he attempted to run out the back door. It appeared that they had successfully lost the posse, but even if it persisted in trying to get on their trail, they were confident that a posse of Sherman citizens would be reluctant to stay after them once they were across the river in Oklahoma Territory. Once there, they wouldn’t worry about any Texas Rangers coming to look for them.

They caught up to Morgan, who was referred to as Little Bit. This was partly due to his short stature but more so because of a short fuse when his temper was riled. Little Bit said, Looks like a nice little nest somebody’s built right next to the river. Might be we could stop and visit a spell. That looks like a smokehouse behind the house. This time of year there oughta be some hams hangin’ up in there. That’d be all right. Wouldn’t it, Webb?

Webb Jarrett grinned. It’d sure be to my taste right now. I swear, robbin’ banks makes a man hungry. He paused to look the place over while the rest of his men pulled up beside him to have a look as well. A right smart little farm that feller’s got for himself. Off the corner of the house, opposite the smokehouse, was a modest-sized barn that looked to accommodate maybe two horses or mules. The house had a nice front porch, which indicated that the woman of the house had a say in the decisions. Yes, sir, he continued, a right smart little farm. I expect we wouldn’t be polite if we was to ride on by without stoppin’ to visit. His comment brought forth the malicious grins he expected. Let’s ride on in and pay our respects. Jake, you ride on back to that hill yonder and keep your eyes peeled. I think we most likely lost that posse, but you hightail it back here if you catch sight of ’em—give us enough time to slip across the river.

Hell, Webb, Jake complained. Why me? Why can’t somebody else do it? Besides, we ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’em in the last hour.

’Cause you’re the one that shot that teller, and most likely stirred up the folks there into comin’ after us, Webb said. I’ll send somebody to spell you. You ain’t gonna miss much.

Franklin Chapel walked out of his barn in time to see the six riders descending the low ridge that bordered the river on the south side. He paused and shielded his eyes with his hand as he tried to see who they might be. His first impulse was to go back in the barn and dig into the corn bin for the .44 Colt hidden there, but there had been no trouble from Indians or outlaws on this stretch of the river for quite a long time, so he decided he was being too cautious. It wouldn’t be a very neighborly reception to meet a group of visitors with a gun in his hand. Still, he studied the riders intently as they approached, obviously not planning to bypass his house. When they reached the end of the corral where the cow was penned, Franklin called over his shoulder toward the house, Ruth, there’s company comin’. Not waiting to see if she had heard him or not, he walked forward to meet the strangers. Afternoon, he said in greeting.

Afternoon, sir, Webb returned politely. We’re a company of Texas Rangers on the trail of some bank robbers. Wonder if you’d mind if we watered and rested out horses here for a short spell.

Franklin replied, Why, no, I wouldn’t mind. You’re welcome to rest here, and I expect my wife could rustle you fellows up somethin’ to eat as well. He was relieved to hear they were rangers, for he had decided they were a rough-looking group of men. Even though this area along the river had been trouble free, with the Civil War having just ended, there were a lot of outlaw gangs roaming the northeastern part of Texas. You fellows step down, and I’ll tell my wife to get somethin’ goin’ on the stove.

That’s mighty neighborly of you, friend, Jarrett said. Me and the boys have been ridin’ hard for a few hours, and that’s a fact.

Well, there’s good water at the well, there, and if you want to take the saddles off, you can turn your horses in with the cow. I’ll go in and get Ruth started. He paused to consider the six rough men before making a suggestion: I expect it’d be best for you fellows to come on up on the front porch when you’re ready.

We’re much obliged, Jarrett said. He waited until Franklin disappeared through the kitchen door, then turned to remark, Did you hear that, boys? He’s gonna go in and get Ruth started. She’s gonna fix us rangers a big meal.

After the horses were watered and turned out with the cow in the corral, the outlaws strolled over to the front porch. Webb took one of the two rockers there and Bevo took the other, while the rest of the gang sat down on the edge of the porch to await their supper. Franklin Chapel returned to make conversation with his guests while they waited for Ruth to fry some bacon and boil some beans that she had planned to cook later for supper. You fellows say you’re chasin’ bank robbers? Franklin asked.

That’s right, Little Bit answered. We’re chasin’ some dangerous outlaws.

Where’d they rob a bank? Franklin asked.

Down in Sherman, Webb replied. It’s a new bank. First Bank of Sherman, I think was the name of it.

Did they get away with much?

Bevo grunted and said, Not as much as they thought they was gonna get.

You said they robbed it this mornin’, Franklin said. You fellows got on to ’em pretty quick. I never knew there was a ranger station anywhere near Sherman.

Webb smiled patiently. There’s a new ranger headquarters just a few miles south of Sherman, so it didn’t take long to get on their trail. He glanced at Bevo in the rocker beside him and winked.

That’s right, Bevo said. We were in the saddle almost as soon as the bank robbers. His comment drew a chuckle from the other three sitting on the edge of the porch.

The response caused Franklin to become a little nervous; he was unable to see the humor in Bevo’s remark. Word of a new ranger station as close as a day’s ride from his farm would ordinarily have spread rapidly throughout the small community of farmers just across the river from the Indian Nations—and he had heard nothing at all, not even a rumor. Well, I reckon it’s lucky you boys were that handy. Feeling a bit uncomfortable then, he was glad when the door opened and his wife came out on the porch, carrying a huge pot of coffee, fresh off the stove, and an armload of cups. Best to get them fed and back in the saddle, he thought.

I’m Ruth Chapel, his wife announced as all six outlaws scrambled to grab a cup from her. You gentlemen caught me without much food prepared, but in a few minutes I can at least feed you some bacon and beans. I’m sorry I don’t have time to bake any bread. Ignoring the fact that every eye was locked upon her, she went along the line, filling each cup. How about you, Franklin? Do you want coffee?

I reckon not, he replied. His discomfort was gradually becoming more intense, and he wondered if he had made a mistake in not fetching his .44 when he first had the notion. When Ruth had filled each cup, he stated, I’ll go in and give you a hand. Then he followed her into the house.

Ol’ Franklin looked like he all of a sudden got sick in the stomach, Little Bit remarked. You reckon he’s startin’ to smell a skunk?

Don’t make a whole lotta difference if he did, Bevo said. There ain’t a helluva lot he can do about it, is there? He took a gulp of the hot coffee and smacked his lips in appreciation. That wife of his ain’t a bad looker. How old a woman you reckon she is? he asked Webb.

Hell, I don’t know, Webb answered. Old enough, but not too old, I reckon. Bevo’s question sparked an enthusiastic interest in the rest of the men.

I swear, Bevo, Little Bit taunted. You ain’t been married but about a year, and you’re already eyeballin’ women older’n you are.

Bevo grunted stoically. I got married, he said. I didn’t go blind.

Little Bit chuckled. I bet you don’t tell Pearl Mae that. She’s damn near as big as you, and she looks like she might be a little tougher.

One of these days that mouth of yours is gonna open a door you ain’t wanna go through, Bevo warned.

Is that a fact? Little Bit replied. I ain’t worried about openin’ no door. My style is to kick the damn door down and kick whoever’s ass is on the other side. His taunting grin invited Bevo to take the next step, while his hand dropped to rest on the skinning knife he wore.

You two just simmer down, Webb ordered, before they come back.

The incident advanced no further because the door opened just then and Ruth informed them that their food was ready. You can come on in the kitchen and get your plates, she said. The food’s on the table, such as it is. You can help yourselves. She stood aside as the rough crew filed inside, each one eyeing her openly. She sent a worried glance her husband’s way as he stood near the pantry door. He had held a hurried conversation with her in the short time they were alone in the kitchen, and she was in agreement that there was something awry in the manner of these self-professed Texas Rangers. As a precaution, he had loaded his shotgun and stood it up just inside the pantry door. She hoped with all her heart that there would be no occasion for him to use it. She didn’t fear just for her and her husband’s safety. Their son, John, was somewhere down the river hunting and had been gone since early morning. She was in a quandary over whether she wished he would show up, or whether she should pray that he didn’t. John was only thirteen, but he seemed older than his years and was unacquainted with fear in any form. If these men were evil, as she now suspected, he would not hesitate to attack them with no thought of the consequences.

Ruth and Franklin stood back and watched while the six men attacked the pot of beans and the plate laden with fresh meat. Like a pack of hungry wolves around the carcass of a cow, they set upon the modest fare until there was nothing left. One of them, a tall, lanky beanpole of a man named Earl, set his empty plate on the table and wondered aloud, You reckon we oughta saved some for Jake?

We might have at that, Webb replied. Tell you the truth, I plum forgot about him.

There’s another one of you? Ruth asked.

Yeah, there’s one more, Webb said, but he don’t need nothin’ to eat. He looked at Earl then and said, I reckon you oughta go on back there and tell him to come on.

Ain’t he gonna be hot when he finds out we been settin’ around the table eatin’? Little Bit remarked, amused by the prospect. I can’t wait to see his face. His remarks drew a round of chuckles from them all.

Growing more fearful by the minute, Ruth made a subtle attempt to verify their claim that they were rangers. You know, she said, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a Texas Ranger badge.

Bevo Rooks cocked a wary eye in her direction. Looks like any other badge, he said. Nothin’ fancy about it.

May I see yours? She said it before she gave herself time to reconsider.

My what? he responded with an impish grin, causing Little Bit to snicker.

Your badge, she said, flushing with embarrassment.

We don’t always wear our badges, Webb interjected, so the outlaws don’t run off when they see us comin’.

Oh, she responded fearfully. She knew then that her suspicions had been confirmed. As she met her husband’s worried gaze, it was obvious that he had reached the same conclusion. Her foremost hope now was that they would leave, since they had been fed and their horses watered and rested. Seeing Franklin inching his way closer to the pantry door, she frowned at him, trying to discourage him from making any suicidal attempts for the shotgun. He paused with his hand almost touching the doorknob.

Well, I reckon you fellows are anxious to get on your way, Franklin said. I’ll help you saddle up. He walked to the kitchen door and opened it. None of the men made a move toward it.

Why, we ain’t in no hurry a’tall, Bevo said, leering at Ruth. Are we, boys? We got time to get better acquainted. Now, me, I been wonderin’ how an ugly son of a bitch like ol’ Franklin got himself a spunky-lookin’ woman like you. Hell, I’m as handsome as he is. My wife says I’m like a bull in season when I get to goin’ good. If you ask me real polite-like, I’ll be glad to show you. He cocked his head to sneer at her husband. Ol’ Franklin won’t mind, will you, Franklin? Bevo’s friends stood there grinning, enjoying the show and anticipating their participation to come.

All right, fellows, Franklin spoke up, this has gone far enough. We welcomed you and fed you. Now I’m tellin’ you it’s time you got on your horses and left. He looked at Ruth and said, You go on back in the parlor till they’ve gone.

She hurried toward the door, but was not quick enough to evade the lecherous grasp of Bevo Rooks. She uttered a frightened squeal when he grabbed her arm. It seemed to please him. Sounds like a rabbit when a hawk catches him, he said with a chuckle. Let’s me and you go in the bedroom. You got a few gray hairs on ya, but I bet you can still buck, can’t ya, honey? He started pulling her toward one of the two bedroom doors.

It was too much for Franklin to endure. Get your filthy hands off her! he roared, and ran to the pantry, where he managed to get to his shotgun. But that was as far as he got before Webb Jarrett calmly shot him down. Horrified, Ruth cried out once more before her legs collapsed beneath her and she fainted.

Young John Chapel was beginning to regret not taking one of the horses when he left the house early that morning. He had always hunted on foot, even when going after a deer or antelope. He could cover a lot of ground in a short time, and keep it up for hours, trotting at a pace faster than walking but slower than running. Strong for his age, he didn’t mind packing his kill back home on his shoulders after he had gutted it and cut away the parts he couldn’t use. But on this morning, he could have used one of the horses to pack meat back to the house, because he had a clear shot at two deer. Consequently, he took only the one shot that brought the young doe down. The second doe had frozen still for only a few seconds, but that would have been enough time for John to eject the shell and reload the single-shot rifle. The shot was from a distance of at least two hundred yards. The rifle, his father’s Remington Rolling Block, was accurate at longer range, using a large-caliber cartridge that would bring down a buffalo, had there been any left in the territory.

Hunting was the only respite from the hard work on his father’s farm, and since he was an accomplished hunter at the age of thirteen, it provided welcome variation from the pork they raised. His father never openly expressed it, but John knew he appreciated that his son showed the ability to do a man’s work without complaining. There was no reason to complain as far as John could see. He wasted no thoughts on whether work was hard or whether he was enjoying his life. Life was what it was, and he faced it without a great deal of thought about his life being harder than the lives of other boys his age. He didn’t know any boys his age. His mother had almost died when she gave birth to him, and she had never been able to become pregnant again. So their one son had not gone to school or played with other children because of the remoteness of their homestead. His mother had insisted upon teaching him to read and write, although he had never seen any practical use for that ability. He was accustomed to living in a lonely world, but he didn’t really know he was lonely. He had never known anything else, so hard work and serious thought were what he perceived as normal. Forced to become the man of the house for the three years his father served with Wells’ Texas Cavalry Battalion, there was no choice other than to become far advanced of his actual age. He had stood up to the challenge, however, and when his father returned after being wounded in action near Fort Gibson in Indian Territory, he found a seriously mature son of eleven doing a man’s work every day. Now, two years after his father’s return, the two of them had worked hard enough to expand the small remote farm to something more productive.

Ready to start back home in order to feed the stock and do his other chores, he hefted the carcass up and settled it upon his shoulders. Then, with his rifle in one hand, he set out toward the hills that stood between him and home. He was grateful for the cool fall weather, for it would have been a long hot walk back to the house otherwise. He and his father had butchered three hogs and hung them in the smokehouse, but there was still room for his deer. There would be plenty of meat for the winter. These were the thoughts running through his mind when he first caught sight of the smoke. At once alarmed, he quickened his walk, for the smoke was in the direction of his home. With at least two miles remaining before he reached the farm, he broke into a trot, still with his deer across his shoulders.

He labored on. His breathing grew more and more strained as he refused to lessen his pace. A wide column of smoke climbed high over the hills that hid the house from him, but he knew from the sheer volume of it that either the house or the barn was on fire. He shrugged the deer carcass off his shoulders and began to run. Already short of breath from walking with the heavy load, he now panted and gasped for air as he pushed up to the top of the hill. The sight that awaited him caused him to drop to his knees. Below him, in the tiny valley, he saw the inferno that once was the house and barn. Both were ablaze, engulfed in flames that were rapidly eating up the walls of the structures.

He was stunned only for a moment before he forced himself to act. Ma! The word was involuntarily forced from his lips as he got to his feet and ran down the hill. There was no sign of his mother or father outside the house, and no horses to be seen. Ma! Pa! he shouted as he neared the burning buildings, but there was no answer. The only noise to be heard was the roaring fire as it consumed his home; all else in the valley was deathly silent. With no way of knowing if his parents were inside the house, he became frantic to force his way through the flames to find out.

Near the well, he found a blanket. There were bloodstains on one side of it, but he didn’t take the time to wonder about them. As fast as he could move, he drew a bucket of water from the well and soaked the blanket in it. Then he draped the wet blanket over his head and shoulders and ran around the house, looking for a place to enter. He quickly decided that the kitchen door was his only possible access. The door was already burned off and hanging by one hinge, so he kicked it aside and plunged through the narrow hole in the flames. As soon as he was inside the raging hell, he felt the stinging hot air in his lungs, and on his face and hands. He knew he would soon be unable to breathe at all as he frantically looked around him at what was once the kitchen. A dark form on the floor by the pantry door caught his eye through the smoke-filled room. He rushed to the body. It was his father, his shirt soaked with blood from the bullet hole in his chest. The realization of what had happened struck him like a blow from an axe, and he roared out in agony. Knowing that he didn’t have much time, he left his father’s body to look for his mother. Staggering from the heavy smoke that threatened to fill his lungs, he pushed into the short hallway and kicked the bedroom door open to discover his mother’s battered naked body lying on the bed. The flames had already caught the edges of the sheets and blanket, and plumes of white smoke swirled in the air over her head. In a fit of uncontrollable rage, he wrapped the blanket around her and lifted her from the bed. The heat was becoming unbearable as he carried his mother back through the kitchen and out the flaming doorway. Once outside, he tried to draw deep breaths of fresh air into his aching lungs as he laid her body on the cool ground, then quickly stamped out the flames that were chewing at the edges of the blanket. Without hesitation, back into the burning house he charged. Grabbing his father’s body by the boots, he dragged the heavy man out the door and onto the porch, barely seconds before he heard the sound of roof timbers crashing to the floor inside.

Anxious to