William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

Riley tried for a second to get up, then groaned and sagged back down. The limp sprawl of his arms and legs showed that he had passed out.

In disgusted tones, Matt ordered, “Somebody put him on his horse and take him back out to Pax. When he wakes up, tell him not to come back to town until he’s sober and willing not to cause trouble.”

A couple of cowboys moved to do as Matt said. While they were busy with that, Sam said to the rest of the men, “Like I told you, either go back into the dance or go home. But the trouble is over, understand?”

Mutters of grudging agreement came from them. Both groups broke up, some of the men returning to the schoolhouse, others drifting off into the night.

Matt joined Sam on the porch. Sam still held his revolver, but he had lowered it to his side. “Think the ones who left will start taking potshots at each other in the dark?” he asked.

Matt shook his head. “I don’t reckon that’s likely. Looked like Riley and Danks were the ones who were stirrin’ things up.”

Sam leathered his iron and said, “I wonder what that business about Shad Colton being a rustler was all about.”

“Just a drunk mouthin’ off, I’d say. Riley was tryin’ to get under Danks’s skin.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam still sounded interested, though.

They went inside, where Seymour hurried over to them right away. “What happened?” he asked. “People are saying that there was almost a gunfight, and there was something about punches being thrown.”

“Punch,” Matt said with a smile. “There was only one punch…and I threw it.”

“You were right to worry, Seymour,” Sam said. “A couple of men from the Double C and Pax were about to slap leather, and if they had, the rest of both bunches would have joined in, too. It could’ve been pretty bloody.”

“But you stopped them,” Seymour said.

Matt nodded. “Yeah.”

“This time,” Sam added. “Somebody ought to have a talk with Colton and Paxton and see if they can’t be convinced to patch up their differences and put an end to this feud.”

“I agree,” Seymour said, “but I couldn’t do that. I haven’t been here long enough. Neither of those men would listen to me.”

“That’s right,” Matt agreed. “Anyway, I’ve heard about these Texas feuds. Usually, the only thing that ever ends them is when one side is killed out.”

“My God. That would require wholesale slaughter.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “that’s about the size of it.”

Matt Bodine’s comment was still on Seymour’s mind as he walked Maggie O’Ryan back to her house after the dance was over. “Is that really the way it is here in Texas?” he asked her as they strolled along. “One family commits mass murder on another family?”

“Well, they sort of commit mass murder on each other,” Maggie said. “That’s why they call it a feud.”

Seymour shook his head. “I’ve learned a lot about the West in the relatively short time I’ve been here, and there’s a great deal I like about it. But I’m not sure if I’ll ever become accustomed to the cheapness with which human life is regarded on the frontier.”

Maggie stopped, which made Seymour come to a halt as well. She turned toward him and said, “It’s only some of the people who feel that way, Seymour. We’re not all like that. I wish there never had to be any violence at all. I…I worry about you, being the marshal and all. Something could happen to you.”

“I’ll be fine,” he told her with a smile. “I’m learning all the time how to handle the job, and as long as I have Matt and Sam around to help me—”

“But that’s just it,” Maggie interrupted. “Mr. Bodine and Mr. Two Wolves won’t be around Sweet Apple forever. They’re drifters, Seymour. You’ll wake up one morning and they’ll be gone.”

“I know,” he said. “Matt warned me that they were…violin-footed, I believe was his word, although I’m not quite sure I understand the derivation of it.”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Fiddle-footed, Seymour. I’m sure he said fiddle-footed.”

“Oh. Yes, I believe he did. I suppose that makes a bit more sense. But at any rate, I know that the time will come when I have to maintain law and order in Sweet Apple by myself. I’m confident that by then I’ll be up to the job.”

“I hope that’s true, Seymour.” She slipped her arm through his as they started walking again. “You don’t know how much I hope that’s true.”

Her words made his heart swell. During his time in Texas, he had grown very fond of Miss Magdalena Elena Louisa O’Ryan. She was smart and pretty and very sweet. She was devoted to her job of educating the town’s youngsters—often whether they wanted to be educated or not—and Seymour found that quite admirable. Civilization brought education, and education brought progress of all sorts. The better educated people were, the less likely they would be to settle all their arguments and disputes with gunplay. Feuds such as the one between the Coltons and the Paxtons would cease to exist.

As if reading his mind, Maggie said, “You know, I’m sure there are people back East who are prone to violence, too.”

Seymour shook his head. “Not like there are out here,” he insisted. Continuing with the line of thought that had just been occupying his mind, he went on. “Take the Coltons and the Paxtons. These are two of the leading families in the entire area. They own successful ranches. Their children are educated. They’re not low-bred hooligans. And yet, if hostilities between them continue to escalate, there’s a good chance that soon they’ll be shooting at each other. Something like that would never happen back in New Jersey, where I come from. People are simply too civilized there to resort to such tactics.”

“Maybe you’re right, Seymour,” Maggie said with a sigh. She didn’t sound like she fully believed it.

Seymour did. No respectable Easterner would ever resort to violence to remove an obstacle from his path.

It just wasn’t done.

In Trenton, New Jersey, Cornelius Standish sat behind the big desk in his office, in the building that housed the Standish Dry Goods Company, and intently regarded the three men who stood before him.

Warren Welch was a fresh-faced young man with curly brown hair and a friendly expression. You had to look at his cold, snakelike eyes to know what sort of man he really was. Daniel McCracken was a redheaded, belligerent Irishman. Standish didn’t fully trust him, but he was said to be good at his job. Ed Stover was the tallest and the oldest of the three, a broad-shouldered man with a mostly bald head and a fringe of gray hair under his pushed-back derby.

All three men were associates of the late Wilford Grant, who had been hired by Standish to do a particular job—and who had failed miserably at that job. Grant, along with his cohort Spike Morelli, had paid for that failure with their lives, but that didn’t help Standish. He was still faced with the same problem he had sent Grant and Morelli to Texas to take care of for him.

McCracken pushed his jaw out and said in a surly voice, “I ain’t sure I’m carin’ for th’ job ye’ve proposed, Mr. Standish. Who in his right mind is goin’ t’ believe that we’re dry-goods salesmen?”

“No one will question it,” Standish snapped, “because I’ll be with you.”

Stover scratched at his bald pate with a blunt finger. “That worries me a little, Mr. Standish,” he said. “You comin’ along with us, I mean. No offense, but we can handle this without havin’ you lookin’ over our shoulders.”

Standish shook his head. “I made that mistake once already when I trusted Grant and Morelli. This time, I’m going to make sure that nephew of mine is out of the way.”