Ralph Compton Dalton's Justice

PROLOGUE

For Marshal Ben Dalton, the dream is always the same.

It is a bright, warm day, cloudless, with the sweet scent of lantana and honeysuckle wafting in a gentle breeze. Wearing overalls and a floppy hat pulled low on his brow, he is in his father’s wagon, delivering a load of cooking wood to the café. As his mule, LuLu, lazily pulls him through town, he passes the Aberdene churchyard where a noonday social is under way. There is energetic singing, laughter, and wooden tables laden with dishes of food and jars of sweet tea provided by the women of the church. Children play games of tag, giggling as they chase after one another. A happy old dog barks and joins in their fun.

But all he really sees is her. She stands out in the crowd, wearing a flowing white dress that seems to glow, her long blond hair, all waves and curls, falling over her shoulders, her eyes as blue as the sky. In the dream, she always smiles and waves as he passes.

And then he is wakened, sometimes by the gray dawn that peeks through a window, sometimes by a rooster’s crow or the bellow of his milk cow, signaling to him it is time to fetch his bucket and head to the barn.

Or, occasionally, it comes in the dark of night with the urgent calling of his name.

*   *   *

Marshal . . . Marshal Dalton . . . you up and got your pants on? We got us a problem . . . needs tending right away." It was the high-pitched voice of his young deputy, Rolly Blair, whom he had assigned late-night watch duty so he might sleep in his own bed for a change instead of on one of the jail cell cots.

Blair was already through the front door of the small farmhouse by the time his boss was stepping into his britches.

You fix us some coffee while I get myself dressed, Dalton grumbled, pointing toward the glowing embers that remained in the fireplace. This better be important.

He doubted it was. In the two years since Blair had begun working for him, the marshal had grown to expect that not all of his deputy’s emergencies were as urgent as his tone of voice might suggest. Ben Dalton passed it off as youthful energy and enthusiasm that he couldn’t help but admire. He had a vague recollection of once being that way himself.

Aberdene was a quiet little town where lawbreaking and threats to the well-being of the townspeople were rare. Such had been the case in the years since Dalton returned home from the North-South war and began wearing his badge. Oh, there were always drunken Saturday night fights at the Clear Water Saloon to break up; there was that Christmas Eve night when lightning struck the feedstore and set the roof afire, and the brief disappearance of a couple of young schoolboys who frightened the wits out of their parents by choosing to spend a day skinny-dipping at Loving Creek instead of sitting in class, reading and doing arithmetic. But Dalton could count on one hand the times a rancher’s horse or farmer’s cow had been stolen, a life had been threatened, or a business had been broken into. Aside from the time he had single-handedly aborted the robbery of the bank by three young and woefully inept Confederate deserters, his career enforcing law and order had been considerably short on excitement or high drama.

All of which suited him just fine. He had secretly resigned himself to the fact that he and a stagnant daily routine were for now and evermore on a first-name basis.

Truth be known, Ben Dalton really wasn’t much of a town marshal. Still, he was generally liked by most. Folks always nodded and smiled when he took his slow walks along Aberdene’s main street, making his presence known two or three times a day. He had never been the subject of scandal or whispered gossip, even when Maizy Benton named her first child after him.

What had happened was her labor pains had come during one of the worst winter storms in the county’s history. Neither the doctor nor the midwife could get into town, so her husband had managed to trudge the half mile to the marshal’s office, seeking help. Then, in his frostbitten and anxious state, the soon-to-be father fainted dead away. Dalton dragged him to a cot in one of the cells, covered him with blankets, then braved the ice storm and arrived to the painful screams of Mrs. Benton. It was left to the marshal to help deliver a healthy seven-pound boy. He’ll be called Ben, the exhausted and thankful mother had whispered to him as she clutched her newborn to her breast.

*   *   *

Dalton was sipping at the coffee the deputy had handed him before he finally asked for details of the current emergency.

Ol’ lady Akins, she finally got fed up with her no-good husband coming home in the middle of the night, knock-kneed drunk. She met him on the front porch with her shotgun.

Kill him?

Naw, she only used birdshot. Ruined his shirt and caused some bleeding to his shoulder. Might near put one of his eyes out. After it was over, she hitched up the buckboard and took him into town to Doc Baker’s office, where he was tended to.

So, what is it you figure we’re supposed to do, arrest her and lock her up with those drunk cowboys we got sobering up?

Well, I don’t know. You’re the marshal.

You talk to her husband?

He says he don’t want to press charges and that he’s done promised his wife that he’ll never take another drink. They were bawling and hugging on one another when I left to come out here.

So, maybe this is one of those sad stories with a happy ending we shouldn’t be interfering with, Dalton said. In fact, maybe I’ll just sit and have me some more coffee, then go milk my cow. Want to stay for breakfast?

The deputy shrugged, his excitement deflated. Might as well, he said.

*   *   *

For several days thereafter, the story of Midge Akins shooting her husband, Buck, was the talk of Aberdene. The ladies of the church collectively agreed that Midge, a fine Christian woman, had been driven plumb to distraction and had finally done what she had to. They were organizing an around-the-clock prayer chain for her and putting together a petition urging Marshal Dalton not to charge her with any crime.

At the saloon, Buck Akins, sober and well on the mend, was too embarrassed to even show his face. The patrons enjoyed a good laugh when the story was told, then retold, often with a little something extra added. Even the marshal had to smile when he overheard someone suggest that the day would come when the incident would be recalled as the Shootout at Akins Farm, and jokingly wondered if one of those big-city writers who produce dime novels might find the tale of interest.

His smile, however, would later vanish when a strange telegram was delivered to his office.

The face in his dream was calling out for help.

PART ONE

THE CALLING

CHAPTER 1

The marshal had tended to his farm chores well before sunup and arrived at his office early. He sent his deputy home to rest, then walked down to the café, where he ordered two oatmeal breakfasts for the young ranch hands who were still in jail, impatiently waiting for their boss to come bail them out. Dalton greeted a couple of early-rising farmers who were waiting for the rebuilt feedstore to open, let Ima the waitress refill his coffee cup, then made his way back to feed the prisoners.

While they ate noisily, he sat, put his scuffed boots atop his desk, and gazed out at the dusty street, which would soon awaken with activity. The café would fill, wagons would arrive to haul away feed and groceries, riders would visit the livery to have their horses shod, and the teacher would appear on the schoolhouse steps, ringing her bell to signal that class was about to begin.

Another day in Aberdene. And, barring an Indian raid, a midtown gunfight, or a calamitous act of God—events that had never occurred in the town’s brief history—Dalton would sit alone at his desk, twirling his worn-out hat on one finger, watching as his little part of the world passed slowly by.

If he could get rid of the jailed drunks early enough, he just might lock up and ride back out to the farm, pick up Poncho, the bluetick hound he’d raised from a pup, and go down to the creek and see if the catfish were biting. Poncho could amuse himself chasing squirrels until he realized it was a hopeless undertaking and decided to nap at Dalton’s side.

On the off chance something did need attention while he was away, everyone in town knew where to find Deputy Blair. Odds were there would be no need. Never was.

By the time an ill-tempered foreman from the Two Aces ranch arrived, cussed out his hungover employees, and counted out bail money, Marshal Dalton had decided yes, it was a fine day for a brief fishing trip, as good a way as any to kill the remainder of a fine morning.

He was posting a notice to contact his deputy in the event of an emergency when he saw old Billy Sexton limping toward him, waving a yellow piece of paper. Got yourself a telegram, Marshal, he called out, shielding his eyes from the sun with his free hand. It just come in and I wanted to get it to you right away. Figured it might be important.

The marshal took a seat on the bench in front of his office and pushed back his hat before reading.

DESPERATELY NEED HELP . . . URGENT . . . JOHN IN JAIL . . . PLEASE COME . . . ONLY ONE I CAN TRUST.

The name at the end of the message caused him to struggle momentarily for breath. The shaking of his hand caused the paper he held to make a rattling noise. At the bottom of the message the sender’s name was also typed in capital letters: MANDY STEVENS RAWLINGS.

Sexton was taken aback by Dalton’s reaction. In his years working for Western Union, he had delivered countless messages bearing troubling news, most alerting the receiver that a friend or loved one was desperately ill or had passed, yet he hadn’t expected someone like Ben Dalton to be so visibly shaken. Only as he viewed the look on the marshal’s unshaven face did he finally remember a long-ago friendship between him and the sender. It was back in the days before the war, Sexton recalled. Ben was still a young man in those days and the sender of the message was the prettiest girl in town.

You all right, Marshal?

Dalton slowly folded the telegram and put it in his shirt pocket. I’ll be needing to send a reply, he said.

Right now? You don’t want to think on it a bit? Sexton said as he took a small notebook and the stub of a pencil from his pocket.

Just make it read, ‘On my way.’

The tone of his voice made it clear he needed no time to give the matter a second thought.

*   *   *

Dalton couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so energized, so suddenly focused on a purpose, however nebulous it might be. His mind raced as he made a mental checklist of things he would need to do before being on his way.

Walking quickly over to J. R. Wheatley’s livery, he sought out the young man who did chores in exchange for small pay and a place to sleep in back of the barn. Junior Atwood was one of Aberdene’s lost souls, without family or history. He had simply ridden into town one day, hungry and sad-eyed, and looking for work. He’d never left. He was mentally slow but always smiling and excessively thorough at whatever task Wheatley assigned him. He had a well-earned reputation as someone who could be trusted and counted on, so long as his task wasn’t too challenging.

In time, Junior and the marshal had become good friends, even fishing together now and then.

He was mucking out a stall when Dalton found him. Need your help, Ben said. I’m gonna be gone for a bit and want you to bunk out at the farm for a while. Continue your daywork here for J. R., but of a morning and evening see to the livestock and be sure and feed my dog regular. I’ll pay proper wages for your caretaking. You’ll find there’s ample food on the kitchen shelves and my bed’s a sight more comfortable than the hay you’ve been sleeping on. Be aware, though, that one side of it belongs to Poncho. He’ll be glad for your company and easy to get along with as long as you scratch behind his ears now and then.

Junior was smiling and shaking his head. I’ll do it, Mr. Marshal. I surely will. How long you figure to be gone?

Can’t rightly say. Go on out this evening and make yourself at home. I’ll leave your pay hidden in the Dutch oven over the fireplace. Before you come to the livery in the mornings, be sure to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and gather the eggs. Poncho, he’ll eat whatever it is you’re fixing for yourself. If it’s still light when you get home, pick the ripe tomatoes and okra out of the garden. You’re welcome to them. That’s about all I can think of that’ll be needing done in my absence.

That matter tended, Dalton rode to Rolly Blair’s cabin on the edge of town. He was pleased to see the thin white column of smoke rising from the chimney, indicating that the deputy was home and hadn’t detoured by to see his lady friend.

Blair had just exited the outhouse and was buttoning his britches, whistling happily, when he saw Dalton arrive.

What brings you this way so early in the day?

Without speaking, Dalton dismounted, took the telegram from his pocket, and handed it to him.

I’m leaving shortly, he said, and wanted to let you know that as of this moment you are hereby and officially appointed acting marshal.

Blair was speechless for a moment. For how long? he finally replied.

I’ve got no idea.

You spoken to the mayor about this?

Dalton shook his head. Nope.

What if he ain’t happy with the idea?

I don’t know. Maybe just shoot him.

For a moment, Blair wasn’t sure whether his boss was joking.

*   *   *

At the farm, he gathered a change of clothes and his straight razor and toothbrush and stuffed them into a saddlebag. He found his bedroll in the barn and, almost as an afterthought, located a box of cartridges for his Peacemaker, his favorite corncob pipe, tobacco, and matches. At the well, he filled a canteen, then knelt to scratch behind Poncho’s ears, explaining to his wholly uninterested companion that he’d be in charge of the place for a while. Don’t be letting any squirrels sneak into the house or raccoons chase the chickens, he said. And see you treat your guest—he’s called Junior—with proper respect when he arrives or he just might forget to feed you.

Dalton rose and looked toward the house he’d called home all his life. Once warm and filled with life, it was now a lonely and uninviting place that had offered little comfort since his parents died in 1863, two years before he’d burned his Confederate uniform and returned to civilian life. If not for Poncho and the few daily chores that regularly demanded his attention, he would have little reason to spend much time at the place at all.

He unfolded Mandy’s telegram and read her message again. Standing in a quiet disrupted only by wind ruffling the branches of the nearby pecan trees, he wondered what manner of desperation had prompted her to reach out after all these years.

In truth, it mattered little. All that did was that she needed him.

As Dalton rode away, heading north in the direction of Fort Worth, Poncho chose not to follow. His running days long past, he had already returned to sleeping peacefully in the shade of the porch.

CHAPTER 2

Dalton resisted the urge to hurry his mare, Dolly, along, choosing instead a leisurely pace that he figured would allow him to complete his journey in three or four days, if the weather held. Along the way he would be on the lookout for resting places that offered shade, tender grass, and streams running with clear, cool water. Knowing there would be a few way-stop towns—Brush Creek, Walnut Gap, and White Rose—along the way where he could purchase a meal and coffee for himself and a bucket of oats for his horse, he had brought no food or even a pot for brewing coffee. He had decided to travel light.

Alone on the trail, there is little for one to do once one is headed in the right direction. Ben knew that the route he was taking had no recent history of Comanche attacks, cattle rustlers, or thieving highwaymen to be wary of, so, mostly, it was thinking and talking to himself that passed the time.

It had been a while since he had allowed himself to take measure of his life, but Mandy Rawlings’ telegram had set off a flood of thoughts, mostly memories of bygone days, back when his parents were still living, times were carefree, and there was no Civil War to be fought. As he rocked in the saddle to the rhythm of Dolly’s steady gait, his mind drifted, one recollection offering a gentle reminder of another. And then another.

Woven through them all was the girl—now a woman, a wife, and a mother—who needed his help.

*   *   *

Though two grades ahead of him in school, John Rawlings had been his best friend back then. Despite a dramatic difference in their backgrounds, they were bonded as if brothers. As he rode, Dalton recalled their spending summer nights on the bank of Loving Creek, sitting in the glow of a campfire, sharing stories and a half-full jug of moonshine John had slipped from the liquor cabinet in his father’s office. They hunted rabbits and squirrels together, sat side-by-side in Miss Silverton’s high school classes, and on Sunday mornings shared the same pew at the St. Gallagher church. They visited each other’s homes regularly and once used Ben’s pocketknife to cut small nicks in their thumbs and pressed them together. From that day, they were blood brothers.

Viewed from any vantage point, it was an unlikely relationship. John was the son of one of the wealthiest landowners in Central Texas, a tall, handsome young man of good fortune with every promise of a bright future. Ben, spindly then and always in need of a haircut and better-fitting clothes, was raised by a hardworking father who managed a hardscrabble living farming, raising a small herd of goats, and selling firewood to townspeople too busy or too lazy to chop their own. The only thing young Ben Dalton knew of his future, even if he had bothered to consider it, was that he longed for the day he would never again see or smell another goat.

There was never an indication, however, that he envied the status of John and his family. John, meanwhile, never looked down on the Daltons’ station in life.

John was outgoing and gregarious. Ben was quiet and shy. Yet their friendship was steadfast and strong.

Until the Stevens family arrived in Aberdene.

*   *   *

Roland Stevens had come from San Antonio to take over ownership of the local dry goods store. Blanche Wells, the previous proprietor, had begun to suffer with severe arthritis and increasingly poor eyesight and had announced her intention to retire as soon as she could find a suitable buyer.

Stevens, his wife, and his young daughter pulled their wagon to a halt in front of Miss Wells’ store on the first day of spring 1858. By closing time, Blanche had handed over the keys, collected a few personal items into a wicker basket, and proudly walked out the front door. She never returned, even as a customer.

Just over a year later, she died in her sleep at age eighty-three. In her will, she left the money she had received from Stevens to the Aberdene library. Since it had no name at the time, referred to only as the library, residents unanimously agreed it should henceforth be called the Blanche Wells Memorial Reading Room. Most townspeople, however, continued to refer to it simply as the library.

One of its best customers was Mandy Stevens.

On most summer days, after working in her father’s store in the mornings, she would sit on a wooden bench in the park, reading whatever new book she had discovered. John Rawlings and Ben Dalton quickly learned of her