Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (12 page)

CHAPTER 15

As the men puffed on their cigars and sipped more whiskey, George spoke of the rifles again. It was clear he considered their acquisition a matter of paramount importance. Mobley could see Wiley did not think George’s approach a good negotiating tactic, but had determined to allow his son the honor of pursuing the matter to its conclusion.

“Mr. Meadows. I notice you carry one of the new model ‘73 Winchesters. Would you mind if I looked it over? I’ve been wondering what all the fuss is about. It looks so much like the old ‘66, there can’t be that much difference, can there?”

“Go ahead and look it over, George. While you’re at it, why don’t you go bring those other rifles in so we can look them over as well? Frankly, we haven’t had much time to check them out. They’re still loaded, so be careful.”

Charley and Bart were immediately out of their chairs and off to the barn. The other boys retired to the shade of the large Oak tree standing in the front yard. Jack decided to join them. He never passed up the opportunity for a peaceful
siesta.
It was traditional.

George examined Mobley’s rifle from every angle, admired its heft and balance, sighted along the barrel, and operated the loading lever. A loaded cartridge popped out of the ejection port, landed on the wooden floor and rattled around Mobley’s feet. George ignored it, and carefully released the hammer back down to its safe position.

“The loading mechanism is smoother, though not by much. It’s positive when it locks up, no wobble. But the action doesn’t look much stronger. I can’t tell if the barrel is thicker or not. Does this .44-40 cartridge have more power than the old .44 rim fire?”

“It does. The cartridge holds more powder.” Mobley reached down, picked up the ejected shell and held it up for inspection. “Can you see? The .44 rim fire in these old ‘66 models has a straight brass and holds twenty six grains of powder. The ‘73 cartridge is longer and holds forty.”

Mobley glanced up. All of the Miner boys were sitting forward on the grass, paying rapt attention. He decided to give them the full treatment. “Besides the cartridge and maybe the angle of the stock, which is similar to the old Henry rifles, the ‘73 is not much different from the ‘66. Both of these weapons use the new King patent side loading port, while in the old Henry, you loaded from the muzzle end of the magazine. The ‘66 uses an all gunmetal frame like the Henry, made out of copper and tin, but the ‘73 is all iron with everything enclosed. Dirt can’t get in as easy.

You’ll notice this one is special with a thirty inch barrel and is sighted for ranges out to 1100 yards, but don’t you get to thinkin’ that means much. The bullet might get out there, but you’d have no real control of it. At five hundred yards you’d be lucky to put a round in a five foot circle. I made a shot close to 300 yards against the Comancheros, but I had plenty of time and a big rock to rest the barrel on. Still, it was mostly luck. I’ve found it’s not wise to waste ammunition when trouble comes, so I try to limit my shots to two hundred yards. With the ‘66, I’d cut that down to one hundred.”

Mobley paused as he watched George continue to examine the various rifles. They were virtually new with the exception of the one that had fallen over the cliff. It had a few dents in the magazine tube and several deep scratches on the stock. The tube would have to be straightened before the rifle could work properly again.

“With these weapons, your family will be the equal of a regular army company, if you take my advice about not wasting ammunition on difficult shots. The old ‘66 is a formidable weapon and almighty better by a factor of fifteen than those creaky old Civil War carbines you’re haulin’ around.”

George nodded. “Would you sell them to us, Mr. Meadows, and if so, how much would you be needin’ for ‘em?”

Mobley reached into his pocket and removed a cigar. He leaned back, crossed his leg and struck a match on his boot. “Will you be wantin’ the whole kit’n kaboodle?”

“Well, no sir,” George said as he looked questioningly to his father. “We’d just need nine; one for each of us.”

Mobley lit his cigar, carefully holding the flame well below the tip. “I see. Did you get a price on one of these new, when you tried to order them last year?”

“Yes, sir, we did. The gunsmith wanted fifty five dollars apiece, but I think he was gougin’ us some on account of the fact so few have been coming on the market. List price on a new one is supposed to be forty eight dollars. The Winchester Company is trying to keep gougers from uppin’ the price, saying they won’t sell to anyone who does, but with Indians willin’ to pay or trade as much as a hundred dollars for a repeater of any kind, it’s been a hard rule to enforce.”

Mobley moved forward in his chair, placed both elbows on the table and took a large puff on his cigar. He looked Wiley Miner in the eye.
These are good people, and with Comanche country so close, they need these weapons.

“Mr. Miner. These Winchesters are the property of the United States Government, having been declared forfeit by the court upon conviction of their former owners of felonious crimes. I am required to obtain a reasonable price for all property declared forfeit, the money to be used for the continuation of the court’s business. The poor dead
Comancheros
from whom these fine weapons were confiscated happened also to be possessed of ample funds to reimburse the government for the costs of their execution, so I am not in need of the full market price. As you can see, some of the weapons are scratched and would not draw full price in any event. Under the circumstances, I think an auction is in order. Do you agree?”

“
An auction?”

“Thank you, Mr. Miner. I will entertain an opening bid of five dollars apiece for these beat up old firearms. Does anyone else have a bid? No? Well then, Mr. Miner, you have just purchased yourself thirteen genuine Winchester repeatin’ rifles for a total price of sixty five dollars. I’d sell all fifteen of them to you, but I’ll be needin’ two of them to augment the battery of my two marshals. Notwithstandin’ your son’s claimed need of only nine, it is my experience having a few spare weapons, in case of breakage or unusually hostile action, is a comfort.”

Wiley looked dumbfounded. “Judge Meadows, I don’t know what to say. You are without a doubt the fairest and most generous man I’ve ever met. Consider yourself welcome here anytime.”

“Well, thank you, Wiley. I will surely take you up on that offer in the future. Boys, come on in here and pick out your rifles. I’ll need the serial numbers for my records so I can provide you with a genuine bill of sale, good against any potential claim.”

CHAPTER 16

Mobley took off his jacket and leaned his head back against the soft brown cow skin leather of the sofa, legs stretched out almost to the porch rail, boots crossed. The whiskey and smoke combined to suggest the benefits of a good nap, or siesta, as Jack had put it. The clatter and clink of dishes moving in the kitchen, however, served to disrupt his focus. It was so typical. The women worked while everyone else dozed.

By unspoken agreement, the men had scattered and sprawled about the yard. Some shifted uncomfortably on spiky dried oak leaves, others snored loudly. A perfect lazy afternoon, sun shining through buttermilk clouds, sparrows chattering in the trees, a light breeze from out of the east smelling of cotton. Just like home.

Edson had slipped off as planned, but Cinda Sue hadn’t given up. She’d redirected her flirting toward Jack, who had seemed perfectly willing to oblige the interest. Now, with Cinda Sue in the kitchen and Jack sprawled on the grass, Mobley felt some relief. Still, the situation might change at any moment. If not for that, Mobley would have volunteered to help in the kitchen. As a boy, Mobley had loved helping his mother with chores. But she was gone, victim of the strange flux that had taken hundreds in Tennessee during the winter of 1859.

Mobley tried to visualize his mother’s face. He could see a fuzzy outline, no details. His mood sank. How could he forget his own mother’s face? He’d been at Harvard when she died, studying, reading, writing endless case briefs, arguing—always arguing. He should have been home.

She’d had long blond hair, blue eyes and wrinkled elbows. He’d loved playing with her elbows as a child when she read to him at night, wrinkling the loose skin around in his fingers. She’d read to him every night, instilling a love of learning from his earliest days.
Belle Revere Meadows
.

He knew she’d have been proud, him a judge. But her vision of a judge had been of a great powder-wigged, robed giant dispensing justice from on high. As a young woman she’d traveled to Europe where grandeur and royalty altered her perception of the world. Even into middle age, she’d talked endlessly of great parties there, elaborate silk dresses and wigs, the Dukes and Earls, snobbies and Bobbies. The daughter of a wildly rich shipping magnate,
Belle Revere
had been courted by many men, most of whom lurked after her wealth, but she’d returned home alone; home to her first and only love, her third cousin by marriage, Ian Meadows. He died suddenly of appendicitis and left her alone at just that moment in her life when she’d needed him the most, needed him to guide Mobley through adolescence. Within a few years she felt compelled to remarry, but did it without enthusiasm. The farmer she took into her home was capable of providing a strict rule for Mobley, but he’d had no imagination at all. She died under the care of doctors a few years later who might as well have been practicing witchcraft for all the knowledge they had at their command.

The doctors who treated them were filthy skunks.
If they’d known what they were doing, his parents would still be alive. But the leech loving butchers had been helpless. Now, he
couldn’t even visualize his own mother
.

Unable to nap, Mobley fought the rising edge of anger, knowing it was a useless thing, an anger no one else could possibly know or appreciate. He edged forward carefully, stood and stretched, shaking his head violently to drive away the memories.

Wiley continued to buzz softly on the sofa, sound asleep. With everyone to themselves, Mobley had time to write a few letters. Of his grandfather, he would request a copy of the old photograph of his mother and father. A small one he could carry around. To President Grant, he’d report on his travels, providing a full description of everything that had happened and everything he had heard.

By the time he’d put pen down and pushed back, the sun was no longer overhead. It shined at forty-five degrees through the oak and thickening clouds. Soon the sun would be hidden altogether. It would rain soon, tonight or tomorrow.

A few of the boys were sitting up. Jack was showing his Sharps rifle to George, discussing the fine art of making long shots.

Wiley snorted awake, coughed his lungs clear and rubbed his eyes. He stood, stretched, and walked in slow motion to the kitchen, his legs a bit wobbly. In a moment, he returned with a pot of coffee and two cups. “Coffee, Mr. Meadows?”

Mobley stood. “Thanks, Wiley. That’d go good. I hope Lovey didn’t put herself out just for me.”

“No, it’s no bother at all. Lovey keeps a pot on all day. It’s the only way she can keep going. We all work hard, but she never stops.”

Mobley felt the left side of his mouth quirk upward. He shook his head. How did they do it? His mother had been the same. Even when resting she’d have been doing something, knitting, sewing a button.
Damn!
The dark mood, the smoldering anger, returned. Along with it—a soft roar in his ears, and—
music
, off key.

Mobley’s heart began to pound as his eyes darted about, searching. “Wiley, are you expecting company?”

* * *

Judge John W. Oliver, proudly in charge of the Texas Land Reappraisal Commission, snapped his buggy whip over the well trained sorrel pony. Traces confidently manipulated caressed the pony’s back. It broke crisply to a trot. Ten heavily armed Texas State Policemen rode behind, dressed like the ragged ruffians they were, and sporting handmade oversized tin stars on their chests. The policemen spurred their horses as Oliver turned onto the shaded lane leading to the Miner farm.

A vain man, Oliver primped for hours before each outing. His clothes were immaculate, hat and coat of black velvet, vest embroidered yellow silk, boots of the finest black alligator. The buggy was his pride and joy, brand new with silver plated harness, waterproof black canvas top with velvet fringe, a springy ride to spare his posterior the ruts and bumps of Texas roads. Oliver
’s mustache, flowing blond hair, and prim chin whiskers left no doubt as to his current hero, George Armstrong Custer.

Oliver was on a mission of revenge. That he would also line his pockets from the confiscation and sale of the Miner farm was simple justice. They’d failed to pay proper taxes. No matter they’d never been told of the assessment or its delinquency. Wiley Miner deserved no forewarning. He’d been the reserve constable who had humiliated Oliver, thrown him in jail. This time it was a whole new game. Oliver came with proper papers and more than sufficient force to impose his will. He noted with satisfaction that half his men were black, the more for Miner to choke upon as a former slave holder.
Or was he? Well, No matter. Governor Davis had been right. The black policemen, now fully half his force, had proven quite intimidating, even with their silly looking badges.

Judge Oliver tugged gently on the reins, slowing the buggy, turning left onto the lane to the Miner farm. His men took up positions in a semi-circle about the buggy, faces appropriately grim. Oliver knew the Miner family was capable of putting up serious opposition, but felt ready for anything. Each of his men was armed with a new Winchester rifle. He secreted a small pearl handled derringer in his vest pocket, a comfort somehow, though less than practical in a serious fight.

* * *

A look of alarm spread across Wiley’s Miner’s face, his mouth moving silently as he stared. “By God, Mobley, I believe that’s John Oliver. Whatever he’s up to, it’s no good, you can bet on it. We’d best be prepared.”

“Oliver? Is that the
Judge
Oliver who became a peach orchard squirrel a few years ago?”

Wiley turned, a smirk on his face. “You know about that? Well, I’ll be dipped. Word surely does spread. Yes, it is. I was the reserve constable who arrested him. The county judge secretly swore me to full service when I went to visit. I waited until I caught Oliver alone; diddlin’ a whore at the Empire Buffalo Saloon, then pounced. He’ll never forgive me for dragging him out in the street, buck-assed naked, and throwing him in the calaboose. If that’s him, and it surely does look it from here, we’re in for serious trouble.

Last year he tried to get even by issuing a court order reassessing my property. Our county court overruled the assessment on grounds the state had no jurisdiction over local property taxes. He didn’t like it one little bit, but with two conflicting orders, he couldn’t do much about it.”

Mobley nodded. His sense of justice aroused. He turned and yelled. “
Jack,
we’ve got trouble coming. You and the boys head for the barn and position yourselves. Remember how we handled Marsten? Warning shots only, unless things fall apart. We’ll start out seeing what they’re up to. If it’s to no good, I’ll take off my hat as a signal. You try to slip up as close behind as you can.”

Jack sprang to his feet, head turning until he saw the approaching men. A quarter mile away, they were following the road. That meant they must pass out of sight behind the barn for a few moments before emerging at the front of the house. Mobley could see Jack and the boys would have just enough time to enter the barn unseen. They grabbed their rifles and lined up behind the oak, out of sight. When it was clear, they bolted for the barn, Jack in the lead.

It seemed an eternity before the approaching buggy with its accompanying riders turned into the farm compound between the house and the barn. Judge Oliver stopped his snorting sorrel directly in front of the white picket fence, his men spread on either side, rifles at the ready. Oliver secured the reins and placed his long whip back in its holster.

“Wiley Miner?”

“That’ll be me, Judge.” Miner drawled. “I see you finally found your clothes. Pity—you looked real nice in the buff.”

Neither Wiley nor Mobley had moved. Wiley stood beside the table, a smirk on his face and a cup of coffee in his left hand. His right hand remained in his overall pocket. Mobley sat down at the table; coffee pushed forward, hands free and laying on top of his journal.

“I’ve no time for your insulting niceties, Mr. Miner. I am Judge John W. Oliver, as you well know. I am also Director of the Texas State Land Reappraisal Commission. I’ve a paper here signed by Governor Davis that requires me to confiscate your land and properties on account of failure to pay taxes under the reappraisal decrees of 1873.”

Wiley Miner’s face remained passive. It obviously irritated Oliver. Mobley had to admire Wiley’s grit in the face of such a statement.

Miner spat a large dollop of tobacco juice, coffee, or a combination of both browns into a spittoon alongside the table. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir, it
is
so. This time you’ll not escape like you did last time. Your county court has no jurisdiction over a decree issued by the State of Texas and signed by the governor himself. You are to vacate the premises immediately, or my men will vacate you by force.”

Wiley Miner put down his cup and stepped to the edge of the porch. Mobley pushed his chair back and followed to stand alongside. With a casual motion, Mobley raised his left hand and removed his hat, swatting it on his leg and returning it to his head.

“Well, I suppose you might as well get on with it,” Miner said. “But, before you do, it might be wise to look around. I think you’re a little short in the manpower department.”

Clank-kachunkaclank
.

Oliver snapped his head to the left and peered around the canvas side of the buggy. The sorrel jumped forward a few feet, shifted its haunches nervously and tossed its head. No one could have mistaken the ominous sound of metal operating levers loading shells into several repeating rifles. Oliver’s men moved to swing around, then stopped as Jack’s harsh command voice rang out.

“
Easy boys,’
lighten up on the triggers or die where you sit. I am United States Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes, and you are all under arrest for disrupting the peace and tranquility of this courtroom.”

“Marshal? Courtroom? What is all this?” Oliver turned back to the porch, then to his men. No one moved.

“
Do as I say!
Drop those rifles on the ground
. If you’re carrying a side arm or belly gun, ease it down with the rifle. When you’re finished, step off the horses and put your hands on your heads.
Now, do it!”

One of the black riders nudged his horse around to face the threat. A brave man. The others began to follow suit. At once a barrage of fire erupted, smoke filling the air. Hats began to fly. Oliver shrank back into his buggy.

“I said,
don’t move, damn you all, or the next shots will be aimed at your bellies.”

Mobley and Wiley drew their pistols. Lovey and Cinda Sue stepped out the kitchen door, holding rifles. Now, Mobley could see that Oliver recognized his disadvantage. He was evenly matched, but in a crossfire. Only one of the riders had a hat left on his head.

“
Drop your weapons
.
There will be no further warning.”

Two of the riders dropped their rifles. The others looked nervously at each other, then to Oliver. The black man who had made the initial move spoke up. “What do you want us to do, Judge? This don’t look so good.”

Oliver turned around slowly, assessing the situation. Another of his men dropped his rifle.

“Do as they say, men. We’ll handle this some other way. No sense in anyone getting killed.”

Each of the riders complied with the orders. Jack waved his rifle toward the oak tree. “Now, if you would be so kind, move on over to the yard and plant yourselves under that big old tree. That goes for you too, Judge Oliver.”