Parker's Justice

By Stephan Masica

Nathan Parker, Civil War veteran and Sharpshooter struggles to rebuild his shattered life after his young son is killed during Quantrill's raid on Lawrence, Kansas. He wants desperately to find the killer, but without a name, there is no place to start his search. A shadowy figure from his past comes back to haunt him and ultimately sets him on his search for justice. Follow Nathan Parker's quest as it begins on the plains of Kansas and reaches its stunning conclusion in the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming Territory. Follow the gritty saga of one man's search for retribution and justice--Parker's Justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephan Masica
• Release date: May 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458045591

Stephan Masica

I've had a life-long interest in history in general and the history of the American West in particular. My other interests aside from writing are painting, sculpture, wood carving, travel, 60s Rock and Surf Music, and Fender guitars and tube amps.

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Parker's Justice

by

Stephan Masica

Published by Stephan Masica at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Stephan Masica

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction and any depictions of or dialog with real past historical persons is the author's creation and should not be interpreted as having taken place.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Rock Island Auction Company for their kind permission to use their photo of the antique Sharps Rifle on my book cover.

I would also like to thank Rob Macklin for the use of his beautiful photo 'Western Sunrise' for the background of my book cover.

Finally, I would like to thank my sweet Mother-in-Law, Ellie Kelley for her help in proof-reading my manuscript and finding continuity errors.

Dedication

I wish to dedicate this book to my loving and supportive wife, Nancy. She believed in me, supported, me, and encouraged me to keeping working and to finally bring this project to fruition. I couldn't have done it without her.

I have a high art: I hurt with cruelty those who would wound me.

-- Archilochus

Chapter 1

The nameless man who had murdered Nathan Parker's son twelve years earlier lay sprawled on his back at Parker's feet.

Die, you son of a bitch, he said, gripping his axe tightly. He stared down at the face that had caused him so much pain and slowly raised the axe overhead then drove it down with all the strength those twelve years of pent up rage and frustration had given him. The chunk of firewood he had balanced on top of an old stump cleaved neatly in two and each half clattered onto the dry, sun-baked ground. The dull noise disrupted his fantasy and brought him back to reality. The force of the blow had driven the axe-head almost an inch deep into the stump and Parker had to carefully lever the handle up and down to work it loose. He set another section of firewood on the stump and hefted the axe, prepared to deliver another phantom-killing blow.

The idea that his son's killer still walked free somewhere, that all he had was a pile of wood to wreak his vengeance on drove him into an ever greater fury. He raged against the wood and drove the axe as hard as he could through each piece and imagined that with each blow, he was obliterating the face of his son's killer. Yet time after time, he felt cheated and empty. There was never any relief or any justice no matter how violently he assaulted the wood. All he felt in the end was nagging, mocking frustration. Nothing eased the pain of his loss; nothing filled the emptiness or erased the guilt he carried. The pile of wooden corpses surrounding him had grown quickly since sun up and lay scattered at his feet. He interrupted his ritual only long enough to mop the annoying trickle of sweat that constantly ran over his brow and stung his eyes.

In early June, the searing heat out of the southwest had merged with the oppressive gulf winds and rolled north over the Kansas prairie and lingered all summer, uninvited and unwelcome. The few rain-clouds that did materialize never gathered and brought relief, but instead simply teased and passed farther north while the parched grasslands waited month after month. Like an insidious poison, the heat relentlessly sapped the life from everything that breathed or grew and left nothing but withered grass and hard-baked soil. The only things that had flourished in the summer heat were the ever-present clouds of biting flies.

It was barely an hour past dawn and the late August heat had already raised a greasy slick on the back of Parker's neck that oozed down his back and plastered his shirt to him like a soggy poultice. Sweat seeped from under his hatband and trickled down his temples. He brushed at the flies that incessantly buzzed around his face and propped another piece of wood on the stump. For the next hour, he doggedly attacked and split piece after piece of wood and cursed them all as the nameless face of the man who had murdered his son. It was a hollow and piteous substitute for revenge against a flesh and blood killer. His periodic struggles against the woodpile had virtually become an obsession.

He was sweating heavily and his hatband was already soaked through and nearly to the top of the crown. It soon proved to be more bothersome than a protection against the sun's withering heat. The heat and exhaustion finally overcame him and put an end to his labor on the woodpile. His arms quivered from the exertion and his hands were tightly cramped around the axe handle. He stood motionless while the sweat rolled down his forearms and over the back of his hands. Too spent from his efforts, he no longer had the strength to lift his axe overhead. Still clutching the axe, he threw his head back with his eyes shut tight and faced the sun. His sodden hat flopped to the ground behind him as he took the full heat of the sun on his face. He wished with all his strength that it would blind him, that it would burn the nameless image from his mind. He waited, but his wish was not granted.

Parker slowly opened his eyes. The silver-blue sky was empty except for the molten ball of the sun. He knew that the sun would never burn away the hated image or the memories. Time and whiskey had never eased any of his pain. Time was not his friend, it never healed his wounds. It made them fester. Whiskey sometimes dulled his physical pain and he often indulged his taste for it whenever the pain of body and spirit became unbearable, but even when he drank himself into a stupor hoping for relief, he found none.

Nathan's cramped fingers loosened their grip on the axe and it dropped to the ground in front of him. He was done with the woodpile for now, but there was no cool breeze to stir up the thick humid air while he stood there gasping under the pitiless sun. It took a few minutes until his rage had finally cooled enough that he was able to catch his breath. He looked down and was startled at how much wood he had split and that now covered the ground around him in a tangled heap. His sweat-soaked hat lay in the dirt among the wood splinters. It was foolish to go bareheaded under the merciless August sun, so he cleaned off his hat, shook his hair back, and adjusted it until it felt comfortable on his head. Because tools were valuable items he respected them enough to take proper care of them. He picked up the axe and wiped the blade off on his thigh, and then he drove it lightly into the stump that he had split wood on that morning. The stultifying heat and biting flies cut short the miserable chore of stacking wood after a half hour. It was all that Parker cared to waste before he picked up his vest and walked over to the corral to tend his horses.

Chaff fluttered in the air and stuck to Parker as he forked hay over the corral fence for his horses. More out of habit than real hunger, a few of them plodded across the dusty enclosure toward him and snorted at the feed. They stared at him as if they expected him to do something about the heat. He leaned on the hayfork and stared back at them, but offered no hope of relief. The relentless heat and drought had kept him in a foul mood for weeks and he wasn't looking forward to the arrival of his friend, John Taggert, later that afternoon. The Taggerts expected their third grandchild to arrive soon, so Henrietta Taggert, who normally accompanied her husband, had instead gone to Chicago to attend the birth.

The talk of babies and grandchildren on such occasions were always been a painful reminder of his son's death. Eli had been killed in the raid on Lawrence, Kansas, during the war while Nathan was away fighting. Maggie Parker had survived the raid, but had since born no more children. Parker and Taggert had been friends for many years. They had started doing business together shortly after Parker first settled in Kansas before the border troubles and the war had broken out. Over the years, he had developed a reputation for breeding some of the finest working horses in eastern Kansas. John Taggert had been one of his first clients and now operated one of the biggest independent cattle outfits near Dodge City. They were close family friends and met every summer at the Parker's ranch to catch up on family news and haggle over horses. Although it would be much easier for them to load the horses onto a train in Wichita and ship them back to Taggert's place, they had made it their custom to drive them back overland instead. The annual drive back to Taggert's outfit served a dual purpose, it gave their wives a week or more to catch up on gossip and the men didn't have to listen to their endless chatter about woman things.

Maggie Parker stood in the shade on the back porch while she took a break from making breakfast and fanned herself with the hem of her apron. She had watched as her husband had again taken out his frustration on the woodpile that morning and she knew that he'd be in a foul mood when he came in after his chores. The cast-iron cook stove made the kitchen almost unbearable on hot summer mornings and the porch roof offered only scant relief while breakfast sputtered unattended on the stove. After a few minutes, the sound of sizzling bacon filtered out to her and told her that breakfast would be ready soon. It was pointless to stay cooped up in the stifling kitchen tending to things that would take care of themselves. A stray lock of hair had slipped from its hairpin and dangled at her right temple. She combed it back with her fingers, wound it around the bun on the back of her head, and pinned it back into place. The pop and crackle of the bacon announced that breakfast was done. She half-heartedly swatted at the flies that buzzed around her face and gently blotted her forehead and the back of her neck with her apron before she cupped her hands to her mouth.

Nathan, time for breakfast, she called. She didn't wait for his response, but instead stepped back into the sweltering kitchen.

Be right there, he yelled back without looking up. Parker balanced his hat on the corner of the trough by the corral and worked the pump handle until cool water gushed out of the spout. He stuck his head under the chilly stream as it splashed into the trough and gasped as the heat was sucked out of his head and drained away. The water temporarily blinded him as he fumbled for the pump handle and worked it again until the water ran cool once more. He felt refreshed for a few short moments and kept his head under the spout until the water slowed, then stopped altogether. It took some hard scrubbing to get the oily slick off his face and neck. The cool water trickled down the back of his neck and shoulders and spread through his collar and down his shirt. He brushed back the ends of his mustache, and then ran his fingers through his hair to squeeze out most of the water. It was a small fleeting comfort, but he was grateful for any respite from the heat. His shaggy hair was still dripping, so he shook his head side-to-side hard enough to make himself dizzy and nearly lose his balance in the process. The heat hadn't killed his appetite and he was hungry for breakfast. After he had gathered up his vest and his hat, he put away the hay fork and hurried up to the house.

The aroma of bacon and biscuits greeted him when he reached the back porch door. Water was still dripping off his mustache and the back of his hair, so he paused for a moment and watched Maggie serve up the eggs and bacon from a cast-iron skillet. The biscuits were already on the table. She set the hot skillet back on the stove and saw Nathan dripping in the doorway.

Use the towel by the washstand, she ordered. I don't want you dripping all over the table.

Parker knew that she scolded when she was irritated and had no doubt seen and heard him going at the woodpile that morning. Too much heat and too little rain over the summer magnified every trifle between them. Without a word, he hung his hat on the peg near the door and reached back to the wash stand for the towel. He swabbed his face and neck and ran it back over his head.

Good enough? he asked. He folded the towel in quarters and tossed it on the wash stand.

Eat before it gets cold, Maggie said. She paused and thought a moment about how ridiculous that sounded. I don't see much chance of that happening today. She sat down and wiped her forehead with the hem of her apron, and then draped her napkin across her lap. Breakfast didn't particularly appeal to her at the moment and she stared at her plate, unsure if she wanted to eat. Because she was a practical woman, she didn't want to waste any food or the work she had put into cooking it, so she started with her eggs.

Parker sat down and leaned back in his chair, still winded and flushed from his morning labors. His stomach felt empty despite the heat and everything smelled good to him. The biscuits were still warm and he pulled one apart before he carefully buttered each half. The aroma of strong coffee filled the kitchen when he poured himself a cupful and motioned to Maggie for her cup. She waved him off. They ate and avoided conversation in the hot and uncomfortable kitchen until Maggie broke the silence half way through their meal.

Think you've killed enough wood yet? she asked. She stared across the table at her husband and waited for his reaction.

Parker knew Maggie was no fool and was fully aware why he had been going at the woodpile so hard on such a miserable morning. He had caught her watching from the back porch before he lost himself in another rage, something she had seen him do countless times in the past.

You know it ain't about the wood, Nathan answered.

It never is, she replied. It's about Eli.

No, it's about the bastard who killed Eli, he corrected, slamming his fork down on the table and rattling the dishes. It was a sore point between them and one they had bitterly argued over many times since Eli's death. He wanted to find and kill the man who had murdered their son and Maggie was afraid to lose him on a futile and dangerous hunt for a nameless killer.

You know I want him to pay for what he did as much as you do. Maggie said. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned toward Nathan. Without a name, there's no way to find him and nowhere to start. I remember his face from that day in Lawrence and that's all. He could be anywhere, even dead by now. She reached across the table for the coffee pot and filled her cup.

What gnaws at me is not knowing if he's alive or dead and wanting to kill him if he is alive. He picked at his biscuit and stirred his coffee. There's no way to find out who was in Lawrence with Quantrill. They were all irregulars. I'm hoping one day I'll hear something from the drovers or the trail-bosses on their way to Wichita or Hays or Ellsworth.

Then you'll go after him, won't you? Maggie said.

I promised you at Eli's funeral not to go out blind, Nathan said. He stirred his coffee and laid his spoon next to his cup. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time and stared across the table at Maggie. I never promised I wouldn't go if I found out who did it.

Damn you, I held this place together for two years and took care of Eli while you were gone in the war, Maggie said, her voice cracking. I won't go through that hell again, not knowing if you'll ever come home or if you're laying dead somewhere.

The war didn't kill me and no murdering son of a bitch will either. Nathan felt the heat rising in his face and saw the hurt and frustration in Maggie's eyes.

You're not God, Nathan Parker. You don't know what will happen.

I know if I find out who he is, I'll see him draw his last breath. He finished another biscuit while Maggie quietly sipped her coffee.

You're as stubborn as one of those jug heads you cull every year, Maggie said. She was resigned that nothing would change her husband's mind, so she got up and carefully slid her empty chair up to the table.

Nathan and Maggie had nothing more to say to each other on the matter. It was an old wound that they had picked at many times over the years and the only serious difference between them.

Even in the twelve years since Eli's death, he hadn't reconciled with the fact that his murderer had escaped any kind of justice and was still walking free somewhere. Maggie's pain was as deep as her husband's. She had watched helplessly while her son was dragged into the street and shot dead in front of her. She saw the man who had killed him laugh as he went about his butchery. The indelible image that was etched in her memory was as clear as that horrific day in Lawrence and she could still describe every detail of his smirking face. The one thing she did not have was his name.

He and more than four hundred other men had been under William Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson's command when they calmly rode into Lawrence, Kansas, early one August morning. They were bent on murderous retaliation for earlier jayhawker raids into Missouri. By mid-morning, most of the important buildings in Lawrence had been reduced to smoldering ruins and nearly every man and boy lay dead. After Quantrill and his raiders had looted the bank and everything of value from the town, most of them fled south to Texas to hide out while the rest melted into the Missouri countryside or back to what remained of their homes for the remainder of the war. Some even drifted down into Mexico or headed for the western gold fields and mining towns.

Despite being back east fighting, Parker could never forgive himself for not protecting his family. He had reasoned that a garrison of local militia stationed in Lawrence would be enough to keep Maggie and Eli safe. It didn't matter to him that there was nothing he could have done to save his son and that he would likely have been killed along with him. During the years before the war, violence and bloodshed became increasingly savage between the Kansas abolitionists and the Missouri Border Ruffians favoring slavery. The endless cycle of atrocities and reprisals had culminated in the Lawrence Massacre. The brutality of the raid was shocking in its scale and only hardened attitudes more on both sides of the conflict and fueled even greater violence and reprisals.

Nathan laid his knife and fork across his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. A full stomach felt good to him and the coffee smelled strong, just the way he liked it. Though the kitchen was stifling, he still blew across the top of his cup to cool his coffee and watched Maggie gather up the breakfast dishes and stack them by the sink. The dry hinges creaked and the screen door clattered shut behind her when she took the folded tablecloth outside and shook it over the back porch rail. Once back inside, she spread the tablecloth over the table again and smoothed away the wrinkles. Parker was tired of the heat and the bickering and he wanted to talk about something else.

It'll take Taggert about an hour to get here from town, he said. Nathan sipped his steaming coffee and squinted at his pocket watch. He twisted the winding stem a few times and set his timepiece on the table next to his cup. If the train's on time, that'd be close to 1:00 o'clock.

I'm not pleased with you two driving the horses back to John's place again. How long do you think you can keep doing this? Maggie asked.

Parker knew she was really more worried about his determination to go on a dangerous manhunt than she was over his age on the drive to Taggert's place. As a man, he didn't fully appreciate how difficult the long days of isolation were for Maggie. Because she had grown up on a ranch and could shoot as well as most men, he reasoned that she had little to fear with a shotgun in the house and with Wichita less than five miles away.

Shortly after their son's funeral, she had made him promise not to go out looking for Eli's killer, a promise that chafed him and grew more burdensome every year. They often quarreled over whether it even made sense to try. He knew deep down that she was right, that there was no place to start looking after twelve years, that all he had was a description of a nameless face. Furthermore, that he would likely meet open hostility if he made inquiries in Missouri or anywhere in the south. Even if he had a tintype of the killer to show, no one was apt to identify him. Even worse, he'd no doubt be considered a hero in some circles for his part in the Lawrence raid. Hard feelings and bad blood were still strong on both sides of the Kansas and Missouri border. There were plenty of old scores yet to settle no matter where he searched. None of that mattered to him. His anger and his pain weren't open to reason.

I'll be gone less than a week, he reassured her. I figure maybe four days out and three back. Two, if I push hard.

Maggie interrupted her chores and wiped her hands on her apron. Please tell me it's the last time you and Taggert do this.

It is. I'm doing it once more as a favor. I won't play drover for anyone else, he said. Horses are a young hand's business and young is a long ways behind me. We've got enough put by so I can ease off.

Henrietta wrote that a group in Kansas City made an offer on Taggert's outfit. Think he'll take it? Maggie asked. She resumed cleaning up in the kitchen.

He ain't said right out, but I think so, Nathan said. He filled his pipe and tamped down the loose tobacco with his fingertip, then struck a match and held it over the bowl while he puffed and drew the tiny flame down. Soon, his head was surrounded by a fragrant cloud of bluish smoke. He snuffed out the match and tossed it on the table.

Taggert's never been about money, he added, puffing on his pipe and sipping his coffee. Seems whatever he puts his hand to, the money always finds him. His folks should have named him Midas. They had been friends a long time and he had never let jealousy over Taggert's success or wealth come between them.

Parker had turned fifteen on his long ride from Buffalo, New York, to Lawrence, Kansas. He made John Taggert's acquaintance shortly after his arrival and his only possessions at the time were a Hawken rifle and a horse. The stud had been a farewell gift from a retired Austrian cavalry officer who had befriended him in Buffalo. Nathan's father was a mean-spirited brute who blamed his lot in life on bad luck and he spent more time getting drunk than he ever did working to support his family. He had tumbled into the Erie Canal on one of his inebriated meanderings home one night and drowned, too drunk to save himself. His mother had died three months later and his older brother had away moved to Montreal and left him to fend for himself.

He had been scrounging for food on the streets for weeks and doing odd jobs when the old Austrian noticed him and asked about his family and why he was living on the streets. Parker explained to him what had happened. The man had no family and paid Nathan to clean his stables and groom his horses in exchange for room and board. Nathan soon discovered that he had an affinity for horses and he quickly developed a knack for training them. The Austrian had taught him all he knew about horsemanship and how to handle a rifle. Parker felt at home with him and enjoyed working with horses so much that he had decided he wanted to raise them for a living. The old man had treated Nathan like a grandson while he lived with him and he was more impressed by his marksmanship than he was by his skill with horses. Parker had become a better shot than his mentor before he had turned fifteen. He could load, fire with accuracy at any range, and reload faster than anyone the Austrian had ever seen. Parker had been with him less than two years when the old man had fallen ill and never recovered. He had given Parker a four-year-old stallion and a small sum of money shortly before he died. He told him he had heard about the open rolling plains of Kansas where land was cheap and plentiful. It sounded like prime horse country and a good place for a new start. After the old man had passed away and was buried, he saddled the stallion and left Buffalo on the long ride to Kansas. Everything that had once mattered to him in Buffalo had either died or left him, so he saw no reason to look back.

Henrietta and I should have plenty of time to catch up while you and John are driving the horses back to their place, Maggie said. She put the left-over biscuits in a small basket and covered them with a clean napkin to keep the flies away.

Then you won't be worried if I'm laying in a wash with my neck broke or if the Kiowa jumped me, Nathan said and laughed. Maggie's glare told him she didn't see the humor. He set his pipe down, got up, and gently laid his callused hands on her shoulders.

I know you don't like being alone. Henrietta's good company and her visit'll do you good. Her smile reassured him. He gave her a peck on the forehead and sat down again.

Did you put a couple ringers in with the other horses? Maggie asked.

Taggert'd be disappointed if I didn't, Nathan said. He thinks he knows horses as well as me. He always threw in one or two inferior animals with the rest of the herd whenever he dealt with Taggert. It was a good-natured prank to see if he was really paying attention when they dickered or if he was simply going through the motions. Parker had a well-earned reputation for breeding the best cow horses in eastern Kansas and he dealt exclusively in prime working stock. He had never sold an inferior animal to any buyer and Taggert trusted him enough to buy the herd sight unseen, if he so chose. It was idle sport between old friends.

Nathan cautiously tapped the coffeepot handle to gauge how hot it was. He decided that it was wiser to use a potholder instead of trying to pour scalding coffee barehanded. Maggie finished putting away the dishes and the leftovers from their late breakfast while he refilled their