Big Cypress

By Denzel Holmes

Curly Smith was a coward when he fled the Civil War. After his encounter with Mitt Stone on the distant Rio Grande there is not a yellow bone in his body. He returns to become a deputy sheriff. His arrest of murderer Angel Ranigan makes him a hero but touches off a wave of violence like no other. Old South sympathizers try to take Texas back in time. Curly, son of a plantation owner,is caught in the middle.

A chance meeting with his old friend Mitt Stone gives him the resolve needed to take charge.

Curly's love for Gail Jean challenges his courage. Jefferson's post-war prosperity offers gain far beyond law enforcement. There will be no love or prosperity unless Curly can win his unwanted war against the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denzel Holmes
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9780975975022

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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Big Cypress

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 products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

The Big Cypress Bayou wanders the entire length of Marion County in far East Texas. It offers life, steamboat services and rich soil. It grants sanctuary for creatures good and evil, and influences all that it touches.

CHAPTER 1

Jefferson, Texas 1866

At G.H. Cossack Mercantile and Consignments, Curly Smith stood at the counter waiting for Mr. Cossack to finish with a customer. He felt conflicted that a Smith would have to ask for a clerking job. His father’s great plantation had been lost to the war. Now, he was the sole bread winner for the aging patriarch as well as his spinster sister Aretha and his war-disabled brother Josiah.

Strapped to his side in a fitted leather holster was the Colt Navy Model 1851 cap and ball revolver given to him by Mitt Stone. He struggled with the thought that Cossack might not allow him to wear it if he worked in the store. It hadn’t left his outdoor presence since that fateful day over a year before when the gift had changed his life. Mr. Cossack won’t be interested that old story.

The oak door creaked open just as Cossack returned to the counter. A bearded character wearing tattered Confederate gray entered. Another man followed but stopped and held the door open. The first man pulled and cocked a revolver as he approached Cossack, ignoring Curly on his right.

Curly would have sworn the man was his oldest brother who was supposedly killed in Louisiana. Willis? Is that you?

The gunman glanced at him, turned back to Cossack, and snarled, Open that drawer and put the money in this. He dropped a flour sack on the counter. Not Willis, eyes not brown; voice too hoarse. Then open the safe and put the rest in there.

The man’s body odor reached Curly. Curly pulled his pistol. Lay the gun on the counter and back up.

The robber did neither. He wheeled and fired. Apparently nervous, he missed Curly’s side and ripped the inside of his shirtsleeve. Curly fired into the outlaw’s belly. He doubled over. Curly glanced to the door.

The door holder crouched and slung a shot in Curly’s direction. Curly returned fire. The glass door panel shattered, spraying the half hidden bandit. The man ducked and bolted for two nervous horses tied across the boardwalk.

The gunman at the counter was bent, groaning and puking blood. Curly grabbed the back of his hat and hair. He thumped his forehead onto the plank floor. His gun clattered under the counter. Curly charged for the door.

The second outlaw had mounted and wheeled his horse. Curly leveled his revolver and shot the horse below its right ear. The animal cart wheeled forward, throwing its rider ten feet ahead. When he rolled to his hands, Curly held a gun against his neck.

It seemed to Curly that half of Jefferson appeared on the street within seconds. One slapped Curly’s back and said, The war changed you. Made a man out of you. Others nodded and agreed.

Marion County Sheriff Dud Walton cuffed the seated bandit as his deputy lifted him from the ground. Curly turned to re-enter the store. Curly, Curly. Walton said. He beckoned and rushed onto the boardwalk. I need you on my team. Would you consider becoming a deputy sheriff?

#

Curly glanced in the mirror before dropping his canvas bag on the floor in his Marshall, Texas, hotel room, some sixteen miles south of his home in Jefferson. Four years had passed since that day he first became a deputy sheriff. He’d served under five Reconstruction Government appointed sheriffs. Curly eyed his reflection. He couldn’t remember seeing a smile on his face since before the war. Yet people told him he looked younger than his twenty-four years. His curly dark locks with a hint of red, light complexion, and small frame made him appear kiddish, a term he hated.

That glance caused him to ask himself what was a kid doing in Marshall, there to arrest the most wanted man in East Texas, and no backup by other law enforcement? It wasn’t the first such assignment he had been sent on by the five sheriffs under whom he served. When the current Sheriff Jim Roberts fell ill with a debilitating muscle disease he recommended Jenkins Wall to the County Commissioners. Acting Sheriff Wall hoped for a free election soon when he could run for the permanent job. Later, he said, he would support Curly as his successor. All Curly lacked was experience. Hell, Curly reasoned, he already had more experience than Wall. The old acting sheriff had sat out the war clinging to his clerking job. He sent Curly on all difficult missions.

Curly couldn’t dwell on the past. He dragged his boots off and undressed. Pulling his old Colt pistol from the holster, he laid it beside his pillow and sprawled on the bed. He felt his heart beat as he stared at the dim ceiling in the Harrison Hotel. Maybe the outlaw Angel Ranigan already knew he was in town. The drunk, Tragor Wells, had told Curly where to find Angel and got a small cash tip. Likely, Tragor went back and informed Angel that the law from Marion County would be coming, collecting enough cash for another drink. That’s the way things seemed to work in East Texas these days.

If Tragor Wells was right, the outlaw Angel was only next door in the Lonesome Pine Saloon. He had a following there where he played cards, drank, and won most rounds. Tragor claimed he’d lost too many hands to Angel and would like to see his career ended. But Tragor’s fondness for drink meant he’d likely as not drift back to the same saloon.

Curly got in no hurry when he entered strange territory. He hadn’t revealed his identity as a lawman when he signed in at the hotel. He would sleep the night there before entering the saloon. It meant he wouldn’t see his subject until the next evening but he would have the layout of the place imbedded in his mind through a morning visit. His badge would appear on his vest only moments before he made the arrest.

Another thing, and he had learned it from Mitt Stone the day he killed his first man. You don’t go dodging and hiding if shooting starts. Your adversary gets the advantage in that split second. And, you’re not much of a lawman if you don’t stand and shoot back. Better still, shoot first. Of course, you have to hit what you’re aiming at.

Hotel owner, Mr. Gunther, in Jefferson had described Angel’s appearance. That was when Curly realized he had seen the man on the street several times that morning. He dressed in a blue striped suit, silk paisley vest with a heavy gold watch chain dangling from one pocket to another. His black derby hat shaded dark eyes, a broad nose set to one side, and a black mustache joined his side burns. The absence of chin whiskers made his mouth visible. His block-shaped teeth bore a grimace. The shift of his gaze could startle a stranger if he looked up suddenly. The face of a killer, Curly thought, knowing the description wouldn’t hold up in all cases.

Jesse Baldwin, a kid who had dodged the draft, had returned to Jefferson as an outcast. The boy had been Curly’s friend before the war. Afterwards, Curly was probably the only man in Marion County who didn’t shun the frightened, disgraced misfit. Curly tried to help him, telling him that drinking wasn’t going to solve his problems. But Jesse said he felt courage after a few drinks. When Curly investigated the killing, Sheepface, the bartender who was a Cherokee Indian, was the only witness who would talk. His story left no doubt that Angel had committed cold blooded murder.

Curly didn’t sleep well. He never did before a major confrontation. He rolled out of bed early, washed at the basin, shaved carefully before the little mirror and combed his hair. He pulled on his shirt, trousers and boots. Before he strapped on his gun belt, he examined the old revolver to assure that the black powder cap and ball cylinder was holding its charges. He rolled the cylinder so that an empty chamber sat under the hammer. He dropped the weapon into his custom made leather holster, lifted it a few times and eased it down gently.

He remembered a kid in Jefferson asking where he got that gun. He answered, I took it off of a dead man. When the boy asked who killed the man, Curly truthfully answered, I did. That was about all the Jefferson folks knew about his war service, and all they needed to know. Word got around.

A minute later he stepped into the hotel corridor and closed his door. He ate a welcome breakfast in the dining room and strolled outside. First, he retrieved his bay gelding, Bear, and visited the nearby stables looking for a dapple gray horse. Angel Ranigan may not stable his horse in town, and may not stay inside the business district, so not finding the horse wouldn’t change his plan. For that matter the murderer could have already left town. He felt the doubts creep in. The best part of an arrest was the moment the culprit is spotted. For sure a moment of high tension but most of the hard work was done. He didn’t find the horse and rode out of town in all four directions looking for boarding houses and stock pens in the outlying areas, mostly killing time until the Lonesome Pine Saloon opened.

Shortly after the noon hour, Curly watched the doors to the saloon swing back. A man in a white apron latched each plank door to the outside wall and walked back through the bat wings. Wanting to wait about an hour before entering, Curly glanced up the street toward the two-story Harrison County jail and sheriff’s office. Sheriff Wall in Jefferson hadn’t told him to contact the local sheriff or the local U.S. Army garrison.

What would Wall do? Curly asked himself. His guess was that the old clerk/sheriff would recruit every law enforcement agency within three counties if he could get them. Maybe I’m playing the fool if I don’t. He turned his horse and walked it toward the jail.

He dismounted below a sign that read: Sheriff Dan Swift, Serving Harrison County Since 1868. The date implied that the sheriff was an appointee of the Reconstruction government rather than a locally elected official. The word Serving told Curly that the sheriff likely wanted to keep the job after Reconstruction ended. The door had a glass pane and Curly saw a man sitting behind a rustic pine desk. He tried the door. It was unlocked. A bell jingled as it opened.

Afternoon, young man. What can I do for you? The seated man said. The desk plaque said Sheriff Swift.

Curly closed the door. I’m here to arrest a man for murder. I understand he’s took a liking to Marshall.

The sheriff’s dark eyebrows bounced. He rubbed his mustache. What’s your authority, young man? Swift asked, taking in Curly’s diminutive height in a quick glance.

Curly stepped closer. I’m Curly Smith with the Marion County Sheriff’s office. Curly slid the tin star from his vest pocket long enough for Swift to see it.

Oh, yes, I’ve heard of you, Swift said as he rose from his seat and extended his hand. Old Dud Walton got lucky when you came home from the war. I’m genuinely sorry that your brothers didn’t make it.

Curly had no desire to explain his war record or get into a family discourse. Thank you, Sheriff. The man’s name is Angel Ranigan, a frequent patron of the Lonesome Pine, I’m told.

Swift cleared his throat and returned to his seat. I understand that he was involved in a homicide at Jefferson. I assumed he had given his statement and ya’ll sent him on his way.

An armless light chair sat in front of the desk. Without asking permission Curly eased onto it. He put six rounds through an unarmed boy and took the boy’s winnings. Curly glanced around the office and saw no one else, even in the lower jail cells. Swift hadn’t interrupted him. He waved a second pistol around and pointed at the boy’s body. He said the boy was a coward, and he, Ranigan, had a Yankee bullet in his back, and that anyone could see it was self defense. He mounted his dapple gray gelding and rode toward Marshall. Seems like he thinks he has a sanctuary here.

Swift’s eyelids narrowed. He laced his fingers on the desk. I have two questions. What’s your source of information about the killing and who told you he’s in Marshall.

Curly drew a breath and exhaled slowly. Angel Ranigan is a dangerous man. Until he is in custody I would not want to reveal sources or names. That would be true even if I meant to take him back just for questioning.

Swift fired back, And what did Jenkins authorize you to do? Arrest him for murder or for questioning?

Jenkins told me to bring him back to Jefferson. I would appreciate any assistance you could give me. Curly didn’t want to preempt the sheriff’s discretion. What he would really like would be a deputy standing inside the saloon door and another just off the boardwalk.

Swift stared at his desk for a moment. Well you can be considered in pursuit, which makes your arrest legal. On the other hand, I don’t have a warrant in this county. Do you see what I mean?

Curly nodded. It was perfectly legal for one sheriff’s office to aid another in an arrest. Swift’s strict interpretation of jurisdiction was so much bull.

Now, you might try the army garrison. County boundaries don’t make any difference. Swift squinted as though hoping Curly would bite. Their office is right up the block. He gestured to his right.

Curly still didn’t speak. His voice would betray his anger. The sheriff shifted in his chair and reached for a cigar. He held it between two fingers without searching for a match.

I might do that. Curly adjusted his hat and rose from the chair. Much obliged, Sheriff.

Outside, Curly glanced north toward the garrison and turned toward the Lonesome Pine Saloon. Six horses stood at the hitching rail outside the saloon. Surprised that business would begin so early in the day Curly mounted his bay and moved slowly toward the saloon. Fifty yards out he spotted a lean dapple gray horse among the others. Any thought of contacting the military vanished.

He dismounted next to the other horses, watched the street for any other patrons approaching, hitched his gun in the holster and turned toward the saloon door. Inside, the earlier arrivals milled about a table at the back wall, talking and laughing a bit excessively. To give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting Curly ambled left to the bar. A man emerged from the group and made for the bar. He wore a white apron.

Be with you in a minute, stranger. Gotta fix these drinks, the man said with a grin. He turned toward the liquor supply and began pouring shots of whiskey.

No hurry, Curly said as he watched the reflection of the group in the bar mirror. A back door stood to the left of the gamblers. Angel Ranigan was easy to pick out of six. The others deferred to him in conversation and body language. His voice held louder than the others. One man lit a cigar for him. The cigar lighter moved the match close to his face to blow it out.

Tragor Wells! The drunk, the man who told him of Angel’s whereabouts and swore he would never play cards with him again.

Angel took a seat behind a round table with his back to the wall, no surprise to Curly. Angel’s companions eased into their seats one at a time as the bartender set the tray of whiskey glasses in the center and dropped two decks of cards onto the table. He turned back toward the bar.

From behind the bar, the bartender said, What’s your pleasure, stranger?

A mug of beer if you have any, Curly said.

Ain’t cold, but it’s made fresh right here in Marshall. You’ll like it. He pulled a faucet handle on a wooden barrel and drew a full glass mug. That’ll be five cents.

Curly pushed a five cent coin across the bar and took the mug in his left hand, keeping his right free.

I guess you’re new in town. What line of work are you in? the friendly bartender said.

Curly drew deeply on the frothy brew and lowered the mug to the bar. I’ll get back to you, he said as he pushed back and stood. He walked as though he would exit to the privy while pinning his badge to his vest.

At the door Curly turned abruptly toward the gamblers, approaching on Angel Ranigan’s right.

Tragor Wells looked up. His eyes widened. He cried, Angel! and pointed toward Curly.

From three feet away Curly pulled his Colt Navy revolver. Keep your hands on the table, Angel. Don’t move a whisker. The other gamblers scooted their chairs away.

Ranigan snarled as he glanced to his right. From that side he was at a disadvantage to pull his side arm. What do ye want from me? he demanded.

You’re under arrest for murder in Jefferson. You’re going back with me.

Angel held the stare on Curly for a second or two. Aw, hell. You’re talkin’ about sump’m that’s over and done. He shifted his face back toward the table. I done explained that. Wasn’t no murder to it. Naw, you can just run on home, boy. You ain’t arrestin’ me. He reached for the deck. Let’s play cards, men.

You can go with me standing up or tied face down across a horse. Take your pick, Ranigan. Curly knew he didn’t have a commanding voice but he meant what he said.

Ranigan turned toward Curly. You really want to take me on, boy?

Curly rammed the pistol barrel into Ranigan’s right eye, where the socket met his nose. Ranigan screamed and jumped to his feet. His hand shot across his vest, inside his coat. Curly clubbed him over the head like a railroader driving a spike. A small gun clattered onto the table, then the floor. Ranigan sagged to his knees. Curly whipped the Colt across his mouth. The screams lessened. A mumbled gasp emerged as blood splattered Curly and the gamblers. Ranigan fell backwards and slid down the wall.

Curly bent and lifted Ranigan’s side gun and pushed it into his belt. He dropped a set of manacles from his back pocket. Ranigan’s head rolled slowly. He sputtered and bubbled blood from his mouth and eye.

Curly snapped the handcuffs onto his wrists. He glanced at the gamblers, now standing. Does anybody want to take up for this man? Do any of you want to go with us? Heads wagged side to side. Then get out of my way. We’re goin’ to Jefferson. The path cleared instantly.

Curly grasped the manacles by the joining link and dragged Angel on his belly toward the saloon door. The man’s weight against Curly’s size made the job all but impossible. Curly made it to the door by pulling, taking a few gasps of air, pulling, and stopping.

At the door he turned back to the gawking five. Tragor, get over here. Right now.

The old drunk tried to shrink behind two others. Tragor! Don’t make me put these irons on you. Get over here. I mean it.

Tragor Wells emerged, trembling, and walked slowly toward Curly. You’re gonna help me get him on the horse.

I don’t want nuthin’ to do with this, Curly. Nuthin’ at all, Tragor croaked. He looked down at the back of Ranigan’s head. I didn’t have nuthin’ to do with this, Angel, I want ye tuh know that.

Get hold of his arm and help me get him to his horse. And I don’t want another word out you until it’s done, Curly said loudly.

When they reached the side of Ranigan’s dapple gray, Tragor spoke against orders. Curly, he ain’t in no shape to ride. Look, he’s plumb limp.

He’s fakin’. Grab the seat of his pants on your side. We’ll stand him up and push him half way over. I’ll tie him that way, Curly said.

Wha.., wull, you can’t drape him across the saddle all the way to Jefferson. You’ll kill him, Tragor said.

Get ahold. Up we go. In seconds, Curly had the stout outlaw across the saddle, belly down. He pulled a small rope from his saddle bag and bound the man’s feet to the cuffs under the horse. He added a tight tie from the belt to the saddle horn to support him in the middle.

Curly reached into his vest pocket and fished out two silver dollars. I might let him get astraddle about half way home. But you heard what I told him in there. It was his choice. Curly handed the coins to Tragor. Here’s for your trouble. But I don’t appreciate you trying to give him a warning just as I walked up. I ought to haul you in.

No! No, Curly. I apologize. Didn’t mean it that way. Tragor’s backward retreat, and stumble over the boardwalk, made Curly smile. Ranigan’s gambling companions stood open-mouthed at the saloon door.

Curly swung into his saddle, reached and pulled the reins of Ranigan’s horse from the hitching rail. He felt the outlaw’s pistol in his waist band and pulled it out—a new Smith and Wesson, nickel plated, artistically engraved, with ivory handles, one that used the modern brass cartridge rounds.

Curly wheeled Bear and led the dapple gray down the street toward Sheriff Swift’s office. He opened the office door and saw that Swift was still seated reading a magazine. Just wanted you to know, Sheriff, when the warrant comes for Angel Ranigan, you won’t have to serve it. I’ve got him all mounted up and we’re headed for Jefferson, Curly said. He closed the door as Swift rushed toward it.

Curly turned the outlaw’s horse so that the blood-dripping head of his charge would greet Swift. Swift almost ran into the captured man before catching himself. Good God, Smith. What’d you do to him?

I asked him if he wanted to go peacefully or tied down across his horse. He chose tied down. Curly bumped his horse’s sides and moved forward. Gotta go. Long way to Jefferson.

Sheriff Swift stood dumbfounded as Curly rode up the street. He passed the Lonesome Pine Saloon and stopped at the hotel. After draping the reins of both horses at the rail he glanced up and down the street and walked to the door.

Curly shouted to the desk clerk and motioned for the man to come. I can’t leave my man here alone, so I’d appreciate it if you’d go up to Room 204 and get my canvas bag. Here’s two bits for your trouble.

The wide-eyed clerk didn’t say a word but hesitated a few seconds to stare at the pathetic figure curved over the dapple gray.

A mile out of Marshall a young black man on a mule passed Curly. Ranigan’s groans were getting to Curly. He had already vomited twice and dry heaved every few seconds. Curly looked back toward the mule rider and saw that the man had stopped to observe.

"Wheah you takin’ that fellah, if ya do’ne mind me askin’? The black man said.

Jefferson, Curly replied. I could use some help putting him up straight on his horse. I’d make it worth your while.

Sho, I hep ya. He dropped from his mule and trotted to Curly’s side.

It took some doing, but with Curly’s instruction they managed to spin Ranigan upright in the saddle without lowering his body to the ground. Curly secured the ropes from ankle to ankle under the horse, and another line tying the manacled hands to the cinch ring.

Curly reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his last two silver dollars. What’s your name, my friend?

Redbone Dunlap. The youth gave a toothy grin eying the coins.

Curly handed Redbone the dollars. I’m Curly Smith from Jefferson. I’m a deputy sheriff. This here’s an outlaw that killed a man in Jefferson. My job to bring him in. Curly extended his hand.

Redbone didn’t seem to know how to respond but at last grasped Curly’s hand. Thank ya, Mistah Cuhly. I cin sho use this money. Uh, what’s the outlaw’s name?

Curly mounted up. Angel Ranigan. Ever heard of him?

Redbone’s eyes widened. He stepped backwards, turned and charged for his mule. I reckon I has. Evah body’s hu’d o’ that one. Wowee, I’s gittin’ outa heah. He vaulted onto the mule from the rear, waved over his shoulder and put the beast into a gallop.

Curly watched him disappear around a curve in the pine-flanked road. That’s a good man, Curly thought. Not afraid to speak up to a white man and not a smart aleck. I hope he makes good.

Curly looked back to Ranigan whose face looked as though he’d collided with a train. His bloody eye was swollen shut. His forehead was coated with partially dried blood. He panted but kept his face upright. Curly would not underestimate how dangerous Ranigan could still be. No doubt, even now, he was watching for any opportunity. Also, he could have friends who could try an ambush on the road.

You want a drink of water? Curly asked.

Yeah.

Curly turned his horse and held a canteen close to Ranigan’s mouth noting that two of those big block teeth were missing or broken off. Ranigan took the canteen in his lips and drank as long as Curly held it there. Curly had wanted a drink too. Now he looked at the canteen and hung it back on the saddle.

I’d be much obliged if you’d let me clean up my face before we git to town, Ranigan said.

Curly fixed his gaze on Ranigan. Consider yourself damn lucky you got a drink of water. We got fifteen miles to go, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you. He punched his horse into a trot leading the gray.

Three hours later, brick buildings, many under construction, appeared through the woods. The black ferry operator at the Big Cypress Bayou didn’t ask for a toll when he saw Curly’s badge.

They rode up Polk Street from the south. People began pouring out of businesses and houses, lining their path. Shouts and applause broke out.

Ole Curly got his man, someone screamed. Jest look at him. Angel is beat half tuh death and Curly ain’t got a scratch.

Another answered, That’s our next sheriff right there, folks. Take a good look.

The crowd thickened during the last one hundred yards, closing behind the mounted pair, following their left turn to the Little