The Skills of Ezra Lacey: A Frank 'Buffalo Robe' Bass Novel, #2

By Will Astrike

Renowned Deputy U.S. Marshal Frank 'Buffalo Robe' Bass must travel to the outskirts of his Jurisdiction to investigate the shooting of a prominent rancher's son by a local sheriff's deputy. Once he determines that the shooting was a murder and the result of a years-old feud between 3 ranching families, Bass must discover the true identity of the villain and, in the process, battle a trio of henchmen thrown against him.

A consortium of the crème de la crème of the west's most evil gunmen has been assembled to further the plotting of Bass's most formidable foe yet, a hired gunman from the distant north. And all the while, working in the shadows, is a young White man raised as a Comanche warrior who has his own ideas of justice, swift and sure. Nothing will stand in his way as he follows his path of righteous vengeance.

Bass, along with his lady love, Sally Bloom, eventually piece together the plan and foil the efforts of evil-doers reaching from Texas to the Northeast and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Fredericks
• Release date: Jul 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201310332

Will Astrike

Will Astrike is a retired western historian. He lives with his wife, Sheryl, in Oregon He can be reached through his website at  www.westernauthor.net

Book preview

One

9:15 P.M. May 24, 1887

The Midland Trail  

Ector County Texas

Chester Steasle had been on the trail for 10 hours, and now his journey was near an end. None too soon as far as he was concerned. He had told his wife, Hannah, as he saddled up to leave, Almanac says cold, ‘n Goddamn rain off and on.  Be lucky just to survive the weather, never mind the robbers and marauders that lay for travelers along that route. She asked him to give her parents her love, and he left his ranch south of Grand Falls just after six Sunday morning. Now it was Sunday evening, and he was within a foot stroll of Grandee's place southeast of Odessa in Ector County. Grandee was Ethan Prescott Lacey. The honorary title Grandee was bestowed by family and friends who benefitted from his patronage and goodwill. Ethan Lacey was much loved and respected in the three counties area.

The weather had been sour, as Steasle feared. Twice he was washed out of his poncho and forced to seek high refuge in the middle of his trip. Earlier in the day, as the storm passed through, it turned cold and windy. With wet traps and riggings, the ride was near unbearable.

Chester was thirty years, not old, of course, but not a youngster either. He was becoming less and less willing to accept physical discomfort as time went by.

He had just passed through the main gate to The Grandee's ranch, Spanish Hollow. He could see at last the lights of the Hacienda nestled into the swale that lent its name to the place. The house was cozied all around in dogwood, and though it was getting too dark to make out the scene entirely, Chester could fill in from memory what was not plain to see.

Ethan Lacey, the Grandee, was a longhaired, barrel-chested, 64-year-old strap of grizzly bear and the patriarch of Chester's family. (Chester had married Ethan's only daughter, Hannah, years ago.) Lacey was also the richest man in the territory, being possessed not only of Spanish Hollow but also a beef cattle ranch twenty miles to the southeast, a lumber mill in Lockhart half a day's ride to the south, and several mining concerns located in the western counties (El Paso and Pecos) and more in New Mexico. Most recently, the Grandee had purchased a cargo schooner moored at Corpus Christi. The old man planned to use the vessel to ferry his salables to ports along the Gulf coast and further up the eastern seaboard, providing he found a trustworthy captain and able crew. It was a three-day train ride to Corpus Christi, so Ethan hired a local shipping agent, on retainer, to oversee his interests. He'd even just begun a freight line business for hauling timbers and milled lumber from his tracts along the Guadalupe River to the warehouses portside. Lacey also was providing an acceptable profit charging a transport fee to neighboring ranchers and businesses anxious to supply the wealthy eastern cities with everything from virgin wools to preserved citrus fruits in cans.

Money and power came easily to Ethan Lacey, and he dispersed both lavishly amongst his family and friends. Despite a stern and formidable appearance, he was compassionate and generous. He routinely tried to maintain a curmudgeonly demeanor, but those who knew him could see through his façade to the more affable side of his personality.

His wife, Amanda, provided suitable balance to his rough and range weary ways. She was raised in Georgia, the second daughter of a moderately well-to-do family. Though not the cream of society, they were landed gentry, and the children were educated in all types of mannerly behavior. Her first exposure to Captain Ethan Prescott Lacey was at a cotillion of the Ladies Auxiliary at St. Genevieve's Academy for Women, where the former Amanda Sallisworth Taylor was an alumnus and occasional tutor.

On the night of the cotillion, young Ethan was playfully intoxicated, as he would later remember it. He recalled his first vision of his future bride was across a polished dance floor, as an ivory goddess cloaked in gossamer and radiating silver light. He allowed that he was just full enough of himself—and corn liquor—to claim the beautiful Amanda's entire dance card, and he dispatched in fisticuffs any rivals for her time or favor.

There were few young men bold enough to challenge such a brazen interloper, and, truth to tell, Miss Amanda was just as glad none dared. Ethan cut quite a figure as a young officer, and Amanda was smitten from the start. Later, he would continue his affront to decorum by stealing her into the garden, unchaperoned, while the bandleader broke for a pipe and refreshments.

Amanda was suitably embarrassed by the attention but also charmed and quite taken with the burly young man. He made her laugh. His considerable wit was loosened by drink, and the varying degrees of moonlight common in such springtime gardens displayed him as both handsome and fit. She was nineteen, he twenty-six.

Their courtship was not protracted. Her own lustful needs and physical passions were every bit the equal to those of her suitor. Indeed, their union had been consummated so often and in so many locales that the inevitable nuptials seemed perfunctory and anticlimactic. The marriage caused them both to blossom, though, and each became more like the other as the days passed. They raised fine children, a boy and a girl, and all prospered in good health, rich in family love and devotion.

A third child was added late in 1879 when Ethan was in the Texas militia and fighting Comanche. The boy was thirteen, they estimated, and had been stolen from a white settlement as a babe. When he was rescued from the Comanche, he was more savage than civilized. Ms. Amanda instructed Ethan to adopt the youth. Once the necessary paperwork was completed, Ethan turned the youngster over to his long-time friend, Micah, (shortened from the Cheyenne Ho na ma o nehe, Howling Red Wolf) to re-educate the lad in his White manners. Micah and the boy both spoke Spanish. Micah had some knowledge of the Comanche language and picked up more phrases from the boy. The boy's new name would be Ezra Lacey, and Micah came to think of him as his own son rather than just a pupil.

The Lacey's firstborn was a girl, Hannah Regina. She was bright and button-cute as a child and grew to a strikingly handsome young woman, strong-willed like her father but tempered with the good humor and warmth of her mother. She was wed at sixteen to a young Texican cowman four years her senior, one Chester Steasle, and she immediately set out after the ceremony to establish herself as a top hand with beef cattle. Between them, they made quite a team. Necessary at the time, as young Chester didn't have a pot to piss in and was too prideful to accept gifts from his father- in- law. He was aware that most folks believed that at least part of his courting the only daughter of a rich man was to invade the old man's wealth somehow and become installed in the high life. He aimed to prove the gossip mongers and street corner gadflies wrong.

The Lacey’s youngest son, Enoch, was sickly as a child but outgrew some of his disorders through hard work and exercise. He was gifted in intellect, and as he grew, the cunning that makes for a good businessman became more and more apparent. With the addition of Ezra, several years older than Enoch, a competitive rift developed between the two. Ethan regarded their sparring as two young bulls, pawing and snorting at each other, vying for some kind of dominance.

Chester Steasle, now standing and dripping in the Grandees foyer, was aware in varying ways and to lesser degrees through subsequent years that the Grandee arranged for good fortune to find its way to his door.   Steasle had, of course, heard occasional rumors and developed his own suspicions. But now, at thirty and with two children of his own at home, he was better given to understand and allow a father's desire to indulge and protect his children.

He was mindful of all this now as he stood at the door with sorrowful news and an even more grievous request. The raw weather and pitch darkness at his arrival seemed to signal an ominous tone for the future of the whole family.

The Grandee kept no house servants, do for your own needs, you'll always suit yourself, was the message he passed to his children, but as he and Miz Manda advanced in years, the need for kitchen and laundry help became apparent. Still, the services were hired out to locals in need of the work; live-in help would appear showy and ostentatious. The only non-blood family member to sleep in the house when he chose to was Grandee's oldest friend Micah. He had been at Grandee's side ever since the Red River Indian war of ‘74. Before the wealth, the children, and Spanish Hollow, there was Micah.

Micah was several years younger than Ethan, though no one was quite sure of his actual age. He was of Cheyenne/Arapaho descent and favored the lineage with coal-black eyes, sun-browned skin, and coarse black hair that grew to his shoulders and framed the flat features of his face like a hooded cloak. Thin, even somewhat lank, he was possessed of elegant bearing though he often seemed sullen and moody, hardly the hot-blooded Savage that his physical presence suggested. Micah more often was cold and aloof, and for this reason, Amanda sensed the more dangerous aptitudes her husband's confidant possessed. Micah spent about two-thirds of the year at Spanish Hollow. He never offered where he was for the rest of the time, and no one ever dared presume to ask. It was assumed that the Grandee was always aware of Micah's whereabouts because whenever he was needed, Micah would appear.

It was Micah that evening who first saw the rider approach the house, dismount, and climb the six steps to the entry verandah. Micah quickly lit an oil lamp and held it slightly above face level as he opened the heavy entry door. The wind gusted mildly as it rushed through the opening and billowed the rider's wet poncho splattering water against the papered walls of the foyer.

Goddamn Micah, didn't expect to see you here...just as well though... 'how you been?

I am well, Señor Steasle. Miss Hannah and your children? Micah did not ask as to the visitor's wellness; that the man was present was testament enough.

Just fine, Micah, they're all just fine. Russell's eight now, 'pitch a lariat damn near far as me, I swear. 'Grandee and la Señora Manda, 'they in?

Where else would they be on such a night? Micah quickly stepped onto the porch and waved the lamp slightly, side to side. He whistled across the paddock to the livery barn and called out, Naa Alii! Muchachos, por favor, el caballo! Two young Indian boys dashed out of the darkness and led the bay horse into the barn. As soon as the animal was put up for the night, one of the boys would run Chester Steasle's gear back over to the foyer.

Two

Ethan P. Lacey had heard the commotion in the entry hall from his reading room on the second floor. Micah...Micah, Goddamnit, who’s at the door?! He was descending the sweeping staircase, buttoning his shirt as he spoke, and stopped short when he recognized his son in law. Chester, son Steasle. I'm a son of a bitch. How are ya, boy? The older man shook the younger's hand vigorously and seemed eager for conversation. Good to see you...good to see you... how's Hannah and my Grandbabies? Nothing wrong at home, I hope, son, that caused you to travel all this way.

No, Grandee, 'least nothing like what you're sayin’. But trouble though, I'm afraid. Trouble down South Country. Concerns Miz Manda's kin, her brother and his wife.

Oh, I see. Why don't you wait in the parlor here, son Steasle? Micah, you stay too. I'll find Amanda.

The north parlor was a small room by house standards but comfortable and warm. It was Grandee's favorite room, the first room that the house was eventually built around, and he'd filled it with items of special meaning. The fieldstone fireplace ran floor to ceiling, some ten feet, and covered most of the northern wall. The hearth itself was elevated and still sported andirons and a pot crane for cooking. Micah had laid out a fire earlier and now reached into the hearth to light it. Soon a light fragrance of wood smoke was detectable.

The western wall was adobe and rough-hewn timber, the general construction of the home's façade, and the two interior walls were paneled in Texas white oak. Shelves on either side of the fireplace held a fair complement of books, a rare commodity in those parts, as well as mementos from the Grandee's Militia days and Indian fighting. Three overstuffed cowhide chairs were scattered in front of the fireplace and a similar though not matching settee was placed beneath the pane window on the Western Wall. An oil painting of horses at a gallop hung on the eastern wall next to a small door that led to a storage room beneath the staircase.

Micah poured brandy from a decanter that had been perched on one of the bookshelves and sat on the settee, knowing that he would be the only one to use it. What would transpire that night would be family business, he supposed, and though he was invited to attend, he knew his place was on the fringe of the conversation. He did not offer brandy to Chester Steasle. The man was family and expected to help himself. And Micah was not a servant.

Chester Steasle, as a rule, did not drink spirits, but after his travel ordeal, the amber warmth and heady aroma of the liquor were too enticing to ignore. He poured a small tot and swallowed it quickly. Then he treated himself to a second, more generous serving.

Amanda Lacey entered the room ahead of her husband. Chester, hello dear, my, but you look used. Do sit, please, dear, sit.

Amanda was a whirlwind of activity in everything she did and everything she said. Her animation and naturally open countenance eased many difficult situations and lightened most heavy affairs. She was never frivolous or insincere, as many matrons can become, but always forthright and genuine. Now, you mentioned trouble in the south, involving my family.

Ethan had joined the group and was seated in the chair closest to the fire. He, too, had poured a brandy.

Ma’am, I'm very sorry to bring sad tidings, there was a long pause as Chester Steasle searched for words to soften the blow, but your nephew, Brandon Andrew, has been shot dead. It was in Ft. Stockton early this week. He was shot from behind, Ma’am, in an alleyway outside a saloon. There was another pause as Amanda closed her eyes and sagged ever so slightly at the shoulder.

Brandon, Bat, was her favorite nephew, the second son to her brother, Tobe, and a true joy to his parents. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Amanda could see him smiling at the last family picnic as he swung on a line across Mill’s Creek with his cousins. And at the campfire that followed, singing with the family.

He was fresh-faced and rascally and worth twice the ordinary youth. His older brother, Phillip, had gone bad. He'd been incorrigible all his life and had spent a good portion of it recently behind bars. Brandon was the promise of his family, the hope for their line.

Amanda spoke softly, almost to herself, How did this tragedy occur?

It was Ike Sutton, Ma’am, Ike Sutton, and Jack Helm. They claimed Brandon was trying to run as they arrested him for cattle theft. Weren’t no witnesses and them bein' policemen and all, wasn’t much to be done at the time. Tobe and Aunt Vera came to see us a few days ago and asked me to come here with the news. They're older Ma’am and sick with grief, or they woulda been here themselves.

Of course...of course, they are... I'll go there... we'll all go. Tears were starting to well in the corners of Amanda's eyes as she excused herself from the room and dashed to her bedroom on the second floor. Chester was still standing, hat in hand, frustrated that he had not found the right words. His voice was tinged with anger and remorse.

It's them Goddamned Suttons, Grandee...that fuckall feud from the old days. They just won't quit. Won't give up on it. Hannah asked me to ask for your help on this, Grandee. She's afraid it'll carry over into our house.

Grandee sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the fire. Your name's Steasle, son. Not Lacey, nor Taylor, nor Sutton either. Keep it as far distanced from this feud as you can. Take no part yourself, or sure as sunrise, it will swallow you and yours too.

I intend to, sir, and make no mistake. But something must be done, Grandee. If there is no retribution, the Sutton's will ride roughshod over the whole Pecos territory. Hell, there’s already more Suttons sworn in as policemen than most folks cotton, and there are enough of them damnable Helm’s between here and the big river to lay waste to a small town. We're outnumbered in the southwest, Grandee, pure and simple, and the Sutton boys know it. They see the prize that West Texas is and what value the Union places on her. They're lookin’ to grab a land base in the west. It means political power in the Capitol, and damnit, we can't stop 'em! We need your help, Grandee. We need men and guns.

Ethan P. Lacey sat for a while and sipped his brandy. The room was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and an occasional rustling from the wind outside. At last, he rose and lifted his pipe absently, tamping it on the hearth. I know you must be tired, son. Take Enoch's room upstairs and get some sleep. I want to talk with Micah.

Recognizing he'd just been dismissed, Chester Steasle rose to his feet, swallowed the last of his glass, and nodded. I do regret bein' the messenger, Grandee. But I fear the message cannot be ignored. With that, he set down his glass and glanced briefly at Micah. Then he strode from the room, closing the door behind him.

Ethan walked purposefully to the bookshelves again and tipped the heavy decanter once more into his glass. Gonna be a bad night upstairs, ‘Manda truly loved that youngster. I can't imagine what her brother's goin' through right now. 'Damn, heartbreak is all.  Do you remember the boy at all, Micah? Nice-looking kid, bright.  Such a real shame. Lacey was staring into the fire as he spoke, the flames had died back a bit, and the curls of smoke that wafted off the oak logs wound gray serpentine tracks through the flue.

Well, son Steasle's right old friend, he continued, action is called for here, swift and resolute, but we must be prudent. He's right about those Suttons down to Ft. Stockton. They wouldn't view a range war at this time with great relish.  Martial law would hardly suit their purpose. They're a scurrilous bunch, and right now, they're holdin the cards. If there's widespread violence and a sovereign state can't be maintained, then Goddamnit, the greatest level of self-government ought to be our goal, and that ain't gonna happen with the Suttons in charge.

Again, Ethan Lacey fell silent. His eyes were closed, and even as he pondered the gravity of the political situation laid out before him, he tried to focus on a vision of his nephew, Brandon ‘Bat’ Taylor. His recollection was not as clear as he wished.

And you, my friend, what do you see as my best course of action?

Micah had remained nearly motionless, listening to his friend's words. He had no clear memory of the dead boy at all, except fleeting images of a group of youngsters at play. Brandon was a bit younger than Ethan's boy, Enoch. He had many fine memories of the growth of the Grandee's son. Making images of their two faces, Micah could begin to feel the loss.

Por favor, Ethan, en Español. Micah requested that the two men converse in a common tongue, not because of some discomfort with English; he was as at home with the language as well as any and better than most. Lacey knew from experience that when Micah made such a request, which was quite rare, it was because the language offered him a greater vocabulary to express complex issues and emotions of varying intensities. Lacey was as adept at the intricacies of the Spanish language as Micah himself had taught Ethan the tongue. Lacey nodded his ascent, and Micah began.

"Ethan, this murder is a message aimed directly at your family. I do not know this boy and know his parents only a little. But he is a pawn. His killing is a summons to you, an invitation to act rashly and, therefore, foolishly. A blood feud is a terrible thing. It is