Last Race Sunday

By Denzel Holmes

When the spontaneous nature of Mitt Stone takes hold nothing can stop him. Up to now he had known his enemy and carried forth with amazing success. Friends made it possible. Did he still have them? This time he will enter a world he does not understand.

A Texas Ranger who hates Mitt gives him good advice. Good, if he intends to pursue a phantom, the vicious killer of of his six-year-old niece. His earlier nature takes over. When Bob Guthrie, Gilberto Saliz, and M.L. Carter join Mitt in Belton, Texas, the town will never be the same. Neither will its horse racing. They are forced to align with a preacher and a sect of celebate women.

Instead of finding a single killer known only as Merlin Journey, Mitt identifies five men. Four try to kill him. Interrogation techniques are a problem. An Old West murder mystery is played out in the little town with the most active, corrupt racetrack in Texas. Mitt finds no help from the local marshals or the sheriff. He is alone to make all decision, or is he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denzel Holmes
• Release date: May 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780975975015

Denzel Holmes

Denzel Holmes is the author of eight Western novels, set in Texas and true to the times and places. He grew up in the ranch country of Pecos County, Married his sweetheart Margie when she was 16 and he was 20. Going on 60 years now. They live in Belton and sell their books there and at Canton, Kerrville, Waxahachie, Dripping Springs, Wichita Falls, Madisonville, San Angelo, Georgetown, Round Rock, Nacogdoches, Killeen, Temple, and many other local venues. He speaks to civic, social and library groups where asked.

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Last Race Sunday

By Denzel Holmes

Published by Denzel Holmes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Denzel Holmes

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

http://denzelholmes.com

CHAPTER 1

Bell County Texas 1878

Thirty-one year old Mitt Stone hated to leave Bell County but the long summer had forced him to sell most of his cows. And he trusted his father’s judgment that grazing leases were plentiful, cheap and lush in Edwards County far to the southwest.

If we’re gonna move, now’s the time to do it. Mr. Hill said he’d buy the rest of the cattle, Mitt said to Lydia as he finished supper. He smiled. We’re free as a couple of birds, he glanced to the kids, Mellie, Bud, and Little Mitt, or, I should say, five birds.

Lydia reached for the dishes. I’ve already started packing. When you talk this way, the answer is always, yes, we’re going to move. I dread to give up my furniture.

Mitt reached for her hand and missed as she carried the stack of plates to the wash table. Well, let’s call it settled. I’d like to be out of here by early September. Right now I’m goin’ to the pens and hay the animals. I’m tired.

I’ll go with you, six-year-old Bud said and bounced from his bench.

Me too, Little Mitt, four, added.

Bud and Little Mitt rushed through the pen gate ahead of their father. He reached to close the gate when a movement on his right caused him to turn.

From out of the brush near the incoming trail a greasy-haired young man burst forth on a roan horse. His .45 Colt outweighed his slight frame and encompassed most of his right thigh. His sudden appearance startled Mitt who froze with his hand resting on the gate latch. The rider moved quickly toward Mitt. His horse showed no gleam of sweat, inconsistent with an animal just ridden the several miles from Salado, likely the man had waited for a good while in the brush.

Though Mitt often shouted greetings from the house, a hundred yards away, this time he elected to let the scruffy rider speak first. He did.

I’m lookin’ for the man that took Sam Bass. You Mitt Stone? His hand dropped within easy reach of the gun.

Mitt peered deeply into the recessed dark eyes, trying to read them. No, I bought this place from Stone, but I could probably deliver a message.

The rider lifted his hand away from his gun and rubbed the black stubble on his chin. You can tell him Brooks Wellborn came callin’. I aim to find out if he’s as tough as he claims, bringin’ down Bass and all.

A drifter, a would-be gunslinger, a reputation seeker. Mitt had known them before. He’d never dreamed that one would stalk him. It was true that Mitt had found the train robber Sam Bass wounded before the rangers did. Stories get twisted. This character, apparently, had concluded that Mitt actually shot Sam Bass.

Stone moved down Georgetown way. Mitt smiled. Said people around here didn’t show enough respect. Town too little, you know? He was thankful that his sons busied themselves dragging hay from the loft and hadn’t heard his lies. They would correct him.

Wellborn eyed Mitt for a moment. He pulled the roan’s head up. Then I’ll see him in Georgetown. He wheeled the horse and rode down the trail on which he should have ridden in.

Mitt thought, that young man would be about half way decent lookin’ if he’d cut that hair and get cleaned up. He’s headed for a fall.

Three weeks later, Mitt’s heavily loaded wagon rolled just behind his surrey and mare, thirty miles south of their former home. Mitt didn’t see the episode as a reason for leaving Bell County. He had already made that decision. Stranger asking directions, he had told Lydia. Lying, even to the ominous stranger, went against his code. Still, staying alive came first, and he would act without reservation to protect his family. He watched the surrey just ahead. For this leg of the move, Lydia had turned over the surrey reins to their son Bud, six, as their daughter, eight-year old Mellie, bounced on the right side of the seat. The mare, Samantha, had been dropped off by the outlaws Sam Bass and Frank Jackson when they took Mitt’s horses. The gorgeous dapple gray mare was too small for riding. She made an excellent light harness animal.

Little Mitt, four, beamed his pleasure at getting to ride alone with his father. He glanced up from his wagon seat beside Mitt. Why are we movin’?

Mitt placed his hand on Little Mitt’s head. Gettin’ too dry around here. Besides, your mama wants you kids to get acquainted with Grams Hoffman before you grow up.

Lydia had delayed their departure a few days to get a confirmation letter from her mother, Elizabeth Hoffman. Mitt’s feisty, demanding mother-in-law would travel by coach from Galveston and meet them in San Antonio as they traveled south, then west.

Mitt went on, Besides, we need to get on out to Edwards County and visit your other grandparents.

Are we gonna live close to Big Foot Wallace again? The little town of Big Foot had been the birthplace for Little Mitt and Bud.

No, but I’d like to see that old man again, Mitt said. Wouldn’t you?

Little Mitt looked forward. I don’t remember him, but ya’ll talk about him all time. Did he really pick me up and play with me?

Sure did. You and Mellie and Bud. You wouldn’t know he was an Indian fighter. The legendary soldier’s kindness defied his violent past, mystifying Mitt.

You fought Indians too. Was that fun?

You ask a lot of questions, son. I fought Indians one time, but I didn’t go out lookin’ for them. They came and found me. And, no, it was not fun.

Little Mitt held off and watched the road only for a few seconds. If me and Bud was born at Big Foot, where was Mellie born?

Well, before your mama and I got married, me and Bob built a little dog run house on Gilberto’s land. When Mellie came along, we lived there. Bob in one room and us in the other. Flora, Mrs. Saliz, delivered Mellie into the world. Flora and your mama are two of the bravest women that ever lived.

Mitt’s mind reeled in memory. The formative two years at the unnamed village on the Camino de Santa Anna would have destroyed most marriages and most women. Mitt had a traveling business known as horse trading. It had gotten him beaten nearly to death and shamed in the town square as a common horse thief. It had yanked him in so many directions he lost count of the lessons learned. But, oh, how he loved his job. He had Bob Guthrie and Gilberto Saliz as partners and M.L. Carter, a man so devoted to Mitt he actually stole horses for Mitt. Thus the troubles Mitt got into. The profession had made it possible to enter ranching without debt, even to this day.

As his wagon followed the family surrey Mitt felt familiar chill bumps along his arms as he reminisced. He would have taken Lydia into Uvalde to await the birth, but she wanted the baby born at home, such as it was. Now he watched the back of her blond head as it turned first toward Mellie and then to Bud, comforting them in their wonderment as Bell County receded to the rear. She was too beautiful to be so tough.

The day of his daughter’s birth, he climbed the twelve-foot ladder from a circular well to answer Flora Saliz’s call. The light skinned, handsome Mexican woman stood on the porch of his dog run house with a tiny bundle. Mitt chuckled, Flora wouldn’t let me touch Mellie.

Why couldn’t you touch Mellie? She was your baby. Little Mitt asked.

Because I was all dirty from digging a well, and little babies are not supposed to get dirty, ‘specially on their first day. Mitt’s arm encircled his four-year-old son’s shoulders. So, I washed my hands on the porch and went inside to see your mama. She was about as sweaty as I was.

Why? She wasn’t digging no well.

It’s just that having a baby, well, that’s a lot of work too.

Little Mitt took the conversation another step. Was Mama rich before she married you?

Mitt laughed. Do you think we’re poor? It was a strong point of chagrin for Mitt. Lydia, raised in wealth, rejected a life of ease to join Mitt. He never intended that she should live in deprivation. She didn’t, but their simple rural life lacked much that she had known growing up. Now, Lydia was more careful with a dollar than Mitt.

It had been Lydia’s valor, devotion to him and determination to prove a point to her mother that caused her to insist that the baby would be born there. Lydia’s mother, Elizabeth Hoffman, lost her temporary infatuation with Mitt when she learned that he was not wealthy or heir to a fortune. Lydia married Mitt for one reason. She loved him for better or worse. But he wouldn’t try to explain all this to Little Mitt.

I don’t know, Little Mitt said. I don’t know the difference between rich and poor.

Look what we’ve found, Mitt said, pointing ahead.

The welcome sight of Georgetown emerged as the vehicles ascended from a low bridge across the North San Gabriel River. Lydia took the reins from Bud and stopped the surrey in front of the livery. Mitt pulled the wagon parallel.

Let’s get a hotel room. I’m tired and so are the kids, she said, blinking. That dry camp last night was too much. Maybe four hours of sleep.

Had that in mind, Mitt said. There’s two hotels here. He pointed left, then right. The San Gabriel and the Double S. The San Gabriel costs the most, but I want to stay at the Double S anyway. Built by the Snyder brothers. Cowmen. They cotton to our kind.

Lydia smiled. Which one do you think my mother would pick? She might not agree with your definition of ‘our kind.’

Mitt tried to look serious. No, really, they say the Double S is a regular museum. Kids’ll love it. Real friendly folks too. Our kind. Despite his effort, he laughed out loud and bounded from his seat.

Mitt began unhitching his horses as well as the surrey mare Samantha. He commented, Stables are in a convenient place. Hotels on both sides, and the two San Gabriel Rivers come together just ahead. He directed Bud and Little Mitt to hold the reins, not that the tired animals were likely to bolt. One thing about it, Mama, if they don’t have any room we’ll have plenty of water on both sides.

Mitt opted to put away the wagons and horses before seeking lodging. If one hotel was full they could inquire at the other. But a much greater hubbub of saddled horses and carriages appeared in the Double S yard. The two-story, frame structure showed lamplight in most windows and threatened full occupancy.

Mitt stepped ahead of Lydia at the rough-sawn plank counter where a small bespectacled man stood. He wore a cap bill and arm garters on his striped shirt. He glanced up from under bushy eyebrows.

His flared mustache wiggled. Good evening, sir. May I help you? He extended a long pen.

Mitt reached for the pen. I hope so. Can you put up my family for tonight? The pen seemed to have answered the question.

The man – Orville, by the brass plate on his vest – eyed the family behind Mitt. His lips counted silently. Certainly. The charge is seventy-five cents. I’ll put you in Room Two-Twenty-Five. It’s at the head of the stairs, front view. Facilities down the hall. There’s a sign.

Mitt signed the register. Lots of traffic outside. I was afraid you were full.

Mostly cowmen in for the conference, and just slaking their thirst. We’ll have ice cold beer in a little while. Orville motioned to his left. Mitt turned to the barroom, a well lighted affair of some thirty by sixty feet. The happy crowd left scant standing room. Relics adorned the walls all around – stuffed animals, guns, knives, pictures.

Mitt smiled. My kind of people. Might have to come back down and try some of that cold beer, once I get the family settled in. He glanced to Lydia. Her upturned eyebrows told him he’d over spoken. Well, maybe not. I’m purty tired. He faced back to Orville. And how do we get to the stairs?

Just dive into the crowd there. Stairs are at the back of the barroom. You can see them from here. He pointed. Right back there.

Mitt, I don’t think we– Lydia injected.

It’s all right, honey. These are our kind of people. They’ll let us pass.

Well, you get in front and put the children between us. I’ll follow really close. Now, don’t get ahead of us.

Activity at the bar, on the opposite side of the room from the staircase drew Mitt’s attention. He ignored the noise-dimmed protests coming from Lydia. A beer keg stood inside another, open, barrel. Two bartenders chipped ice from a huge block and tossed it into the cavity between the vessels.

Takes about an hour for the ice to draw the heat out of the beer, one attendant shouted. Ya’ll be patient. It’ll be worth the wait.

Mitt turned for the stairs. You young ‘uns still with me? Don’t lose your mama.

A step later, Lydia screamed, Iiiiiee!

What, honey?

Someone pinched me on the behind.

Mitt glanced into the crowd. Which one? I’ll–

How do I know which one? They’re all drinking. If I weren’t with you, I suppose you’d act the same way.

What? Mitt leaned toward Lydia.

Never mind. Just go.

As they neared the staircase, a gilded Confederate Cavalry saber hung on the wall at the left, about eye level, and held in place by two upturned deer hooves. Instinctively Mitt reached and tested with his thumb the fine edge of the blade. Woo, that thing is sharp as a razor. He couldn’t say it aloud for fear that Bud, followed by Little Mitt, would do the same. A step farther, immediately before the stair landing a giant bull buffalo shoulder mount adorned the wall, and interfered with the direct approach to the stair. A rope suspended the huge taxidermy piece to a hook on the ceiling beam some fifteen feet above, and returned downward where it was secured to the floor. Obviously, the plaster wall was not strong enough to bear such weight.

Mitt ducked his head and passed under the buffalo and his charges followed.

An hour after entering the room Mellie, Bud, and Little Mitt ran from bed to bed, screamed, and giggled in wide-eyed excitement as Lydia scolded, You need to get in bed and quit acting like wild Indians. We didn’t get any rest last night. Your father paid a lot of money for this room, and it’s for sleeping.

Bud lowered the feather pillow in his hands. Father said we’re gonna go down and drink cold beer.

He said no such thing, and it wouldn’t include you anyway, his mother corrected.

Seated beside Lydia on the small, lumpy love seat, Mitt laughed. Boy’s got good ears. I guess it’s too late for that, although that keg would really be cold by now. Lydia’s face whirled toward him as he continued. I’ve heard of ice cold beer but never tasted it. They say there’s no drink like it in the world.

The expected scold didn’t come. I’m not staying in this room without you. And I certainly wouldn’t allow the children to stay alone.

The family of five descended the stairs with Mitt in the lead. The human noise, annoying from inside their room, crashed their eardrums on the lower floor. He led them under the great buffalo and passed the sword, along the back wall, seeking an opening into the crowd, the smoke, and the smell of warm bodies, to maneuver toward the popular barrel where lifted mugs and shouts attested the cattlemen’s approval. A log bench presented the opportunity he needed.

He leaned over the children and shouted into Lydia’s ear. Ya’ll sit here. I’ll work my way through and get us two mugs.

She cupped her hand to his ear. Just one. I’ll have a sip of yours.

No. Two. He turned sideways and forced his way through the first cowboys. Ten minutes later he emerged clutching frothy glass mugs in his left hand using his right to fend off sudden movements by the crowd. Hold these, and I’ll go over there, he pointed to the un-crowded opposite end of the long bar, and get the kids some sarsaparilla.

Mitt’s elbows leaned onto the bar as a familiar looking man appeared at his left. Instantly he recognized Williamson County Sheriff Sam Strayhorn. How’d do, Sheriff. Mitt extended his hand. Mitt Stone. Been about two months since I’ve seen you.

Strayhorn studied Mitt for a second, taking in his whole frame. Strayhorn’s cardinal rule against firearms in town had gotten his deputy, Grimes, killed by Sam Bass at Round Rock when he tried to disarm the train robber. After a downward glance Strayhorn smiled. Oh, good to see you, Stone. You and Campy have any luck collecting that reward money?

No, I think Camp gave up on that idea. Mitt chuckled. I kinda hoped nobody knew about that.

Strayhorn referred to Mitt’s brush Bass and Frank Jackson at the Bell County ranch. Lydia had confronted them while he worked in the pasture. It was just as well. Had he been home when the outlaws came through and commandeered his two favorite horses, he probably would have gotten himself killed. He and Bell County Deputy Campbell Prophet pursued the outlaws, got crossways with the Texas Rangers, and found Sam Bass dying in the trees north of Round Rock. Prophet claimed he and Mitt should be entitled to the many rewards on the train robbers’ heads. On that odyssey they had visited Strayhorn in Georgetown.

Strayhorn continued. Old Campy came down here and got me to sign affidavits that he’d been on the trail of Sam Bass and that he – Campy – was known as a truthful man, or words to that effect. I signed his papers. About half way agreed with him. We lost a good deputy. The rangers didn’t lose anybody, but they damn sure wanted all the glory, and money.

They can have both as far as I’m concerned. Mitt wanted this conversation to end.

What are you having to drink? I want to buy it, Strayhorn said and grinned. Not that it’s free. I want just a little information from you.

Mitt had no reason for snubbing the sheriff who seemed more than friendly. Actually, I was gettin’ three drinks for my kids. Sarsaparilla, but you don’t need to–

No, that’s fine. Strayhorn threw three nickel coins on the counter. Give this man three sarsaparillas, and put some of that chipped ice in them, he said to the bartender. No, what I wondered was, well, Campy said ya’ll found Bass before the rangers, and I believe him. But he was in such a huff, I really questioned if he was thinking straight when he said Bass died before the rangers got there. As you know, the rangers said he was alive and they talked to him for a day.

Mitt stared into Strayhorn’s eyes as the soft drinks clinked onto the bar at his right hand. I went off after Frank Jackson, chasing my other horse, and left pore old Camp there with Bass. Camp told me the story later, but the way he told it, I believed him too. There’d be reasons why the rangers wanted to claim Bass was still alive. The rewards offered didn’t specify if they would be paid for a dead body. Mitt gathered the drink mugs giving body language that he needed to go.

Small eager hands reached for their drinks. Lydia extended Mitt’s frosty beer mug, hers showing the top level lowered by an inch. He asked, How is it?

Different. You’ll need to speak to your older son later. I could hardly keep him away from it.

Mitt drew deeply on the sudsy liquid, squeezed the icy freshness in his mouth and let it slide down his parched gullet. Mmm-mmm, that’s ‘bout as good as I been told. He sat next to Mellie on the opposite end of the bench. The children sipped their sodas and watched him.

Mellie said, Did they have any straws? I like a straw with my drink.

No, no straws.

Little Mitt added, I wish we had some little cakes.

Bud wouldn’t be denied. I want a piece of cheese with mine, but I bet it would be better with the beer.

I’m not gonna fight my way through that crowd for cakes or cheese, or straws, Mitt charged. Now this is a treat. Enjoy it. We have to go back up in a few minutes.

The children ravished their sweet drinks in short order. Mitt glanced to Lydia whose beer mug still showed over half its content. His held one more satisfying swallow. Mischief overtook him.

He leaned toward Lydia. Honey, if you’re ready I’ll go get us two more.

I’ve had more than enough. I feel light headed. We need to go upstairs.

I’ll finish yours, Bud chimed. His hands grabbed his mother’s mug causing a dash of suds over the lip.

Get your hands off that. As Lydia wrested the mug back a wave of amber chugged onto her light brown dress. I’ll never get that stain out. Mitt, let’s go. She set the container on the bench and led out toward the stairs, a firm grip on Bud’s wrist.

As the family filed along the wall Mitt stalled for a second to consume the remainder in Lydia’s glass. She passed by the cavalry saber, under the stuffed buffalo, and mounted the first steps. The children followed, Bud’s wrist locked in Lydia’s strong fingers.

As Mitt reached the sword a shadow, at first, then the whole of a man stepped under the buffalo and blocked his path. The slight cowboy stood full upright under the shaggy beast’s beard where Mitt had stooped to pass. He turned to face Mitt. His flop hat seemed to require more turning time than his face.

Stop where you are, Stone. I got business with you. His left index finger stabbed toward Mitt’s face. You lied to me. His right hand hovered above a revolver on his hip.

Brooks Wellborn.

Yes, he had denied being Mitt Stone, and sent the young idiot to Georgetown. Maybe the man had overheard his conversation with Sam Strayhorn. Still, Mitt found the confrontation amusing, or the cold beer had subdued his caution.

Mitt leaned his hand against the wall on his left. Don’t go getting sore, Brooks. You got to understand. I’m not looking for a reputation. Above the shaggy buffalo, on the stairs, Lydia stood, her daughter and two sons huddled at her skirt, eight eyes riveted on Mitt. He smiled.

You claimed you come down here where folks ‘ould respect you, Wellborn declared through clinched teeth.

Now, Brooks, you see I’m not wearing a gun. Mitt ran his right hand across his waist. Wellborn glanced.

In a flash, the Cavalry