Cooter's Revenge

Cooter's Revenge

         In the still air of a South Texas summer, broken only by the whirring of cicadas, the town of Iona baked; somnolent under white clouds in a blue sky that cruelly mimicked icebergs in artic seas. The old men playing checkers under the Hanging Oak in the town square spotted the dust cloud raised by a buggy running at full tilt up the Del Rio road.
Someone with good eyes muttered it was the new parson's rig. Soon everyone could see  Reverend Winfield, standing upright in the box, his long black frock coat flapping behind him, whipping his horse mercilessly. Charlie Bowen, a grizzled Confederate veteran, sensed major trouble coming and sent a couple of nearby youngsters running-from general store to stables, from bank to saloon to boarding house-to  alert the townsfolk, long before they could hear the preacher's cries of: "Murder! Murder at the MacKinnon ranch!"
Some of the men, all too aware of the possibility of raiders-Comanche from the north or Mexicans from across the Rio Grande to the south-ran to fetch rifles or shotguns they always kept handy. The Nueces Strip in 1874 was as wild a frontier as anywhere in the West, and raids on isolated ranches in the huge country were common. Few men went unarmed and only fools failed to watch their backtrail.  By the time the Reverend Winfield swung his rig into the town square, an excited and fearful crowd of men and women awaited his news.
         "Libby MacKinnon's been murdered," hollered the preacher once more as he hauled on the reins and brought his heaving and lathered dray horse to a stop.  
         His shouts drew furious shouts from the men and gasps from the women, as the pale, thin preacher fell, rather than jumped, into the arms of angry townsmen. Set upon his feet, his blood-stained clothes gave mute testimony to his gruesome story which tumbled out in a shaken voice:
         "I went to visit the MacKinnon's," he gasped. "Libby's been feeling poorly after the birth of her child and hasn't been able to come to church." The women in the crowd nodded in understanding. "Childbirth Fever" was a common ailment that killed many women . Winfield gulped for air, trying to contain his emotions. "When I got to the ranch house, the door was open, and the place had been ransacked. Mrs. MacKinnon lay dead on the kitchen floor..." He looked around the crowd and noticed some women among the men. Hesitantly, he approached the delicate part of the story. "She was . . .uhh...I think she'd been" He mopped the sweat off his brow and continued, "When I looked into the other room, the baby was there, alone in his crib..." An audible gasp rose from the crowd. Reverend Winfield hastily reassured them by moving back to the wagon and picking up a blanket-wrapped bundle from under the seat that commenced to wail. "Poor little Cooter," he said sadly. "I don't think he's hurt. . .but the poor babe will never know his mother." As the pastor collapsed into tears, one of the older women took possession of the crying baby and began to rock back and forth, holding the child to her bosom while she crooned an ancient Highland lullaby. Between great racking sobs, Winfield cried out, "Missus MacKinnon is in the wagon too. I couldn't leave her out there."
He pointed to an ominous shape in the wagon bed, wrapped in a tarp. A hush fell as several men stepped forward and reverently took the remains of Libby MacKinnon out of the wagon. As one, the crowd began to move toward the boxy, white church on one side of the square. They placed Libby MacKinnon's body on a table near the church altar with a couple of women to attend her. Then, the townsfolk fled the sanctuary as though the evil that killed Libby MacKinnon had somehow attached itself to her-and might attack them. They congregated outside, speaking in hushed tones that couldn't hide their outrage.
Someone remarked that Libby's husband, Sam MacKinnon, was in San Antonio on a cattle-buying trip.  Another opined that if the former Ranger had been present, the outrage would never have happened. Since the nearest law, the county Sheriff, was two days ride away, a consensus was reached that the townsmen should form a posse.
The men of Iona fell into a familiar frontier routine. While some men shooed their women-folk home, others scattered to round up their horses. Within an hour, a posse of twelve men, led by the blacksmith, Armin Bendele, trotted out of town and headed for the MacKinnon ranch to take up the trail of the murderer of Libby MacKinnon.
Reverend Winfield went to the railroad station and sent a telegraph message to the Menger Hotel in San Antonio to notify Sam MacKinnon. He also wired the Sheriff at the county seat. As shadows lengthened, the town settled down, and the idlers went back to their checkers game, but the conversation remained on the grisly murder and speculation on who'd committed the crime. Charlie Bowen knocked out his pipe against his wooden leg and summed up the feelings of them all: "They's gonna be Hell to pay--and no change comin'--when Capt. Sam gets home and finds out who kilt his woman."

****

The next evening, the posse returned on worn-down horses with a bound captive; an Indian, whose army breeches and bedraggled cavalry hat identified him as one of the Seminole scouts from Fort Clark. The Indian rode through the jeering townsfolk with an impassive face as the posse circled the square until they finally came to rest in front of the saloon. The posse pulled him roughly from his horse, but circled the Indian and fought off the men who tried to hit him or the women who spit on him. The leader of the posse, Armin Bendele, made it clear that no harm should come to the Indian until after the trial and hanging. "After all," he said, "Iona's trying to grow into a real law-abiding town-not just a wild and wooly watering-stop on the new railroad."
The argument worked, and the mob backed off.  The possemen chained the Seminole to the 'law log' in back of the saloon. Iona was too small to have a town marshal or jail, and only once before had anything occurred that was serious enough to warrant sending for the county sheriff. So a giant cypress log from the nearby river bottom served as an immovable anchor for those few townsmen or cowboys from neighboring ranches that got too rowdy in the saloon. Generally, a night or two in the outdoors, whether in summer's heat or the occasional winter 'Norther', was deemed sufficient punishment.. The yelling crowd soon tired of baiting the stone-faced Indian and left for the saloon to hear the tale of his capture from the posse. Although the Indian was chained securely, the town of Iona slept uneasy that night, knowing that a dark and evil presence slept alongside them.

****

Sam MacKinnon stepped off the train the next day, wearing a beat-up gray Stetson and a new, black, store-bought suit that showed the effects of dust and being slept in. He had the typical short and lean build of a horseman, but his body was toughened and scarred from years as a officer in Terry's 1st Cavalry and later as a Texas Ranger of the Frontier Battalion. He carried one of the new Winchesters, a Model 73, in one hand. Visible under the long frock coat, a Colt was strapped to one side and a large Bowie knife on the other. He might be dressed for a funeral, but his gear showed his thoughts were bent on revenge.
The train was late, and the Miller kid met him on the station platform with the news that the burial service was already in progress at the church. In August, burials couldn't wait on absent loved ones. Sam left the boy with a dime and instructions to watch his saddle and travel bag, then walked toward the plain, white, boxy, unsteepled building that served Iona as a church.
As he walked away, the boy couldn't contain himself and called out, "Captain MacKinnon, the posse caught the Indian that killed 'em. He's chained up beside the saloon."  
If MacKinnon heard, he gave no sign. Those few people who weren't at the funeral--the saloonkeeper and two of his doxies, a passing drummer, and Charlie Bowen--took one look at his dark gray eyes and shuddered as he walked past the chained Indian. He never paused or turned his head, but the Indian knew this white man held his fate in his hands.  
Mackinnon opened the church door and silently entered. No one noticed at first as the preacher continued his eulogy: "And so we come today to bury this woman, Elizabeth Ann MacKinnon, whom we knew and loved as Libby, and ask God to bless her family, Husband Sam Houston MacKinnon and son Robert Lee McKinnon known affectionately to his family as Cooter, and ask God to help us understand..."
The preacher spotted Sam MacKinnon standing in the aisle and stopped in mid oration. Slowly, everyone's head rose from the prayer position and a murmur arose as the congregation turned and followed the preacher's gaze.
"Don't stop the prayin' on my account, Preacher," MacKinnon said. "Get it done. Libby'd like that. I don't reckon God and I have much to say to each other right now, so I'll have my last words with her at the graveside when you're finished." He gave a ghastly smile. "Then I have business to attend to. My boy Cooter won't have a mama and he's due some revenge for that."
Women wrung their hands and sobbed into lace handkerchiefs while men looked somberly at each other and shook their heads. With that, Sam MacKinnon turned around and left the church, leaving a congregation of silent people who knew that Death walked the streets of Iona.

****

The Seminole scout, Broken Wing, watched the man in the black suit approach without changing his expression. He knew the white man from long scouts together after Comanches and Mexican raiders. The man who hunkered down in front of him had the look of an enraged buffalo bull, and he realized his eyes might not see another sun. He'd seen an owl, the bird that signaled death, fly into the Hanging Oak that morning. If the owl had come for him, he resolved to die well.
"I know you Broken Wing. We fought the Comanch together as brothers," MacKinnon said. "Now my people tell me you killed my wife. Is this true?"
"Broken Wing killed no one. He fought to protect MacKinnon's home before. Why would he kill his wife and son now?"
"The posse said they found the tracks of one of my horses leading away from the ranch house." He paused. "You were riding that horse when they found you."
"It is true I went to your house. My horse broke a leg in Frio canyon. Your wife sold me the horse for two $20 gold pieces. I know nothing of her death."
"Why should I believe you?"
"When Coyote steals, sometimes Wolf is blamed." The Indian shrugged. "There should be tracks for Ranger MacKinnon to see and prove Broken Wing speaks true."
MacKinnon's eyes widened. "On many days and nights on the trail, I found Broken Wing to be a true man. Those days and nights save your life--for now."
Broken Wing watched the man walk away. He felt, rather than saw, the owl fly away.

****

         Sam MacKinnon and the Las Vacas County Sheriff and his deputy rode to his ranch the next day. The tracks of the parson's buggy from three days before were still plain in the caliche road: Straight and easy going in; wild and careening from side to side going back to town. Before going to the ranch house, MacKinnon made a circuit completely around the buildings, leaning down off the shoulder of his horse occasionally when something caught his eye. Twice, he grunted and dismounted. Once he lifted a horse turd, broke it apart and sniffed. The other time he briefly followed a set of horse tracks that wandered down a trail into a canyon in back of the ranch house. MacKinnon never spoke and neither of the lawmen asked him a question.
Finally, he led the way to the small ranch house. The men reined in their horses and grew quiet in respect as MacKinnon stepped down from his saddle, looked around the stable yard as though it had grown unfamiliar to him, and entered the door of the small adobe house.
         The place smelled of death and was in a shambles. Chairs were overturned, the dining table was askew, and kitchen utensils and broken crockery lay everywhere in the main room that served as both kitchen and living room and ran across the front of the house. Flies rose from small pools of dried blood on the floor where his wife had been attacked. A swarm of blue-bottle flies feasted on gray matter that adhered to the adobe wall next to Cooter's crib. MacKinnon closed his eyes and fought to keep his stomach under control.
He returned to the main room and wandered, seemingly aimlessly, picking up bits and pieces of his life that lay broken or carelessly strewn about. He spotted the English teapot from the set her mother gave her at their wedding and salvaged it intact from the rest of the debris. After replacing it on the shelf of the China closet, a sudden thought took him to the fireplace where he lifted out one of the flat river stones that lined the chimney. Two $20 gold pieces nestled in their hiding place along with some paper specie and the deed to the ranch.
"Son of a bitch," he said and took the gold pieces into his hand.  
         Suddenly a shout came from outside. "Rider comin' from the back canyon!" He walked out into the glare and saw his ranch-hand, Pablo DeLeon, riding up at a fast gallop.
"Hola, Senor MacKinnon," DeLeon called out and gave a gleaming white smile as he pulled his pinto to a frothing halt and slipped out of the saddle in one smooth motion. "I saw the two men and didn't recognize them."
"Where you been, Pablo? I told you to stick close to the house while I was gone."
"Perdoname, Jefe. The remuda in the back pasture got through the fence, and la senora told me to find them."
"How long you been gone?" MacKinnon's voice was icy.
The boy hung his head and said, "Four days. They got out of the canyon, over the rim, and onto the Lopez ranch. The Lopez family let me stay with them while I looked for the horses."
"Four days, my ass!" exclaimed the Sheriff. "That's around the time when yore wife got kilt. He probably did it, and then took off to the Lopez spread to give himself an alibi."
"Senora MacKinnon es muerto?" Pablo DeLeon's face turned pale as he realized what the questions about his absence from the ranch were about. "Senor, I had nothing to do with it-but I am responsible. You told me to watch after her."      
         "You're comin' with us back to town," said a grim-faced MacKinnon.

****

The lights of Iona's saloon beckoned the lathered riders as they thundered into town on nearly blown horses. MacKinnon set a grueling pace on the twenty mile ride and let none of the men into his thoughts. All conversation stopped as MacKinnon entered the saloon and marched over to the bar.
"Give me the keys to the law log," he demanded from the bartender.
The man looked helplessly over at the Sheriff who said, "Now Sam, I don't think you want to do this. I know he's and Indian, but you can't take the law into your own hands."
MacKinnon ignored the Sheriff and quietly said to the bartender. "Give me the damn keys, or I'll take 'em off you."
Whether it was from curiosity, or from the look on MacKinnon's face, the bartender hurriedly grabbed the keys from under the bar and gave them up. MacKinnon spun on his bootheels and marched outside.
"Go get the preacher, quick," said the Sheriff to his deputy. "Maybe he can talk some sense into Sam before he jumps the stump."
The deputy nodded and ran out the door while the Sheriff fortified himself with a beer and a shot from the obliging bartender. Then, followed by the saloon crowd, he chased MacKinnon out the door to the law log. MacKinnon was just unshackling the Indian as the Sheriff arrived.
         "Sam, we can have a trial here tomorrow morning and have this Indian hung before supper."
         "This man didn't do it."
         "How do you know that?" a drunk called out. "He's just a damn savage."
         "Broken Wing said he paid my wife for the horse with two $20 gold pieces. I found them in our hiding place. If he'd raped and killed my wife, he'd have kept his gold."
         "Then it must've been yore cowhand, Pablo. He knew you were gone and had the opportunity," said the Sheriff. A growl went up from the bystanders as more and more townsfolk surrounded the law log. Someone waved a rope and a few put their hands on the struggling cowboy.
         "You think I'd leave my wife and child with a man I couldn't trust? I found Pablo's tracks from four days back, just like he said. He followed my wife's orders because he wanted to visit his novia, his sweetheart, Juana Lopez for a few days."
         "There ain't no one else," the Sheriff said.
"There's one man," said MacKinnon grimly.
The Sherriff's eyes widened. "You can't mean to accuse the preacher..." A murmur came from the crowd and several people stepped away from Reverend Winfield, leaving him alone in a rectangle of light shining from a window of the saloon.
         "It took me a while to figger it out," MacKinnon said. "Libby had her best china tea set out. She wouldn't do that for Broken Wing or Pablo, but she'd use it for a visiting preacher."
"That's pretty thin, Sam. You gotta have better than that to charge the preacher. Why, he brought the body into town."
"Winfield had to have a reason for the blood on his clothes, so he brought Elizabeth and Cooter to town. There was no blood on Broken Wing or Pablo." A silence fell and every eye turned to the preacher.
"I'm innocent," Rev. Winfield shouted. "You have no proof. Your wife was dead when I got there."
"Except for one thing, Preacher. And it didn't hit me until I got to suspecting you. When I got to the church for the funeral, you said we called our son Cooter. We did. But it was a pet name and no one hereabouts knew about it. Only the murderer would have heard my wife use it while she was alive. That means you lied about finding her dead."
The preacher found nothing but contempt on the faces of the steely-eyed men who grabbed him and hustled him toward the Hanging Oak. Justice was swift in a frontier town like Iona. Later that night the owl returned to his nest in the Hanging Oak, and startled by the figure dangling at the end of a rope, flew into the night, calling "WHOOOO" to those who believe in signs.