Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (16 page)

“
Shot his ear off?
The judge shot Oliver’s ear off? What on earth for?”

“Because he don’t like to be called
Moby,
or Toby,
near as I could figure. Oliver called him somethin’ like that, makin’ sport of his name don’cha know; and quicker’n you could sneeze a squirt in your shorts, he had Oliver’s ear holed and bleedin’ like a toad on a sharp stick. Fastest draw I’ve ever seen. As a matter of fact, it was so fast all I saw was the smoke and him puttin’ the gun back in on the table.”

Edson sat back and let out a long, slow breath. He knew Mobley was good with a rifle, but he’d had no idea he was fast with a pistol as well. The man just did not look like he would be so quick.

“Dang, I believe I’ll give that man the widest part of the road if’n I ever see him.”

“Oh, you’ll likely see him. Oliver figures Meadows is on his way to Austin. He has to come here to catch the train. Everyone around these parts is waitin’ to take a look at him. The whole town is excited about the rulin’ he made on the reappraisal laws, and they say he’s close to seven foot tall.

Oliver now, he’s planning revenge, I think. First thing he did after he got back into town was go for the telegraph office. Probably sendin’ for that Ferdie fella in Austin. That man’s about as shifty as any man could be. Right dangerous too, if the stories about him are all true.”

Edson leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What stories are those?”

Rufus reached for the bottle, which was now splashing below the label, held it up to the dim light of one of the smoking lanterns, then poured most of the remaining liquid into his glass. “We’re out of whiskey.”

Edson turned to see the bartender staring at the stamped metal ceiling, eyes like worn holes in the bottom of a boot. Several customers were grumbling for service, but the man ignored them. Edson excused himself, pushed back and walked to the bar. He reached across to wave his hand in front of the bartender’s eyes. No response.

Edson lifted the end of the bar on its hinges and stepped around the man. He selected a bottle of Hopi Blue, dropped two dollars on the bar and returned to his chair. Several other men did the same. Soon, there was a rush to the bar, bottles flying around freely with few of the men bothering with payment.

Rufus laughed at the spectacle, and then resumed his story. “Ferdie’s supposed to be some kind of knife fighter. Likes to cut people up, they say. Carries a big Arkansas toothpick with a curved bone handle in his belt. Rarely ever uses a firearm, but some say he keeps a belly pistol.”

Rufus’s voice turned cold. “One of the blacks who came down from Austin with Ferdie said he gutted a whore once from crotch to breast bone, just for the fun of it.”

Edson felt his jaws tighten, his blood pound in his ears. The crawling sensation increased. He was stunned, angry beyond description. The thought of someone killing a woman like that was almost too much for him. To have done it
for fun
, was more than he could comprehend. The man must be totally insane. But he would pay, Edson vowed silently. If it was true and if they ever crossed paths, Edson would avenge this unknown whore. No true Cherokee could do less.

“Do you know who Ferdie works for? I mean, what was he doing down here helping Oliver?”

“Durned if we know. He just come and rounded us up, sayin’ as how he was a government man. But I don’t hardly believe it no more. Not even that Austin bunch would hire someone as skunk bad as that.”

* * *

It was midnight when Edson finally broke away from the Star Variety. Rufus and Smokey Mills were still conscious, but Filo and Huntoon lay face down on the table. Edson was more than a little light-headed. His path out the door was marked by several serious stumbles as he stepped over dead drunk hunters, misjudged, and fought to make his feet work correctly.

He finally staggered into room six at the Lone Star Hotel, to find Maggie waiting for him, a smile on her face. She wore nothing else.

CHAPTER 21

Yancy Potts burst into Governor Davis’s office, his hand waving a telegram. “You’re not going to believe this, Governor.”

Davis stood staring dreamily out the side window. A thunderstorm moved across the northern section of Austin, lightning spearing the ground all about. He did not move.

“Governor?”

Davis flinched, surprised and suddenly angry at the interruption. He turned. “Damn, Yancy. I’ve told you not to come in here unannounced. Don’t do it again.” Davis walked back to his desk and sat down hard. “Now, what’s so all fired important.”

Yancy hung his head slightly, a light sheen of sweat on his bald head betraying the urgency with which he had come. “Sorry, sir. I got carried away, but you’re just not going to believe what has happened. That new federal judge has overturned your reappraisal decrees. He ruled them unconstitutional.”

“
He what?
How could he do that? He doesn’t even have a courthouse, how could he have a trial and us not even know about it? Damn it all, Yancy, what’s going on here?”

Yancy moved quickly to the chair in front of the governor’s desk and sat down. He’d hardly had an opportunity to investigate Judge Meadows and knew practically nothing of his marshals. But he took a deep breath and started.

“There just hasn’t been time enough for me to do a thorough investigation, Governor. But from what Judge Oliver has reported, he and his men were trying to evict some farmer named Miner from his land and Judge Meadows was there. He held an appeal hearing right then and there,
on the porch
. It was supposed to be an appeal on the legality of the reappraisal decrees. Anyway, he overturned them and roughed Oliver up pretty badly in the process. He fined him two hundred dollars for contempt and disarmed all of his men. If they are to continue your program, we’ll have to send him some more money and get more weapons.”

Davis leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk. “Miner?
Wiley Miner
? The rebel over by Waco?”

“Yes sir. He’s the one.”

Davis banged his fist on the desk. “That miserable sonofabitch. The traitorous bastard has been stirring up trouble among the cotton farmers ever since the war. I’d have had had him hung for treason if he hadn’t had so many supporters among the growers there in Waco. Now he’s got a federal judge on his side? What the hell is going on, Yancy? How could the President do this to me?”

Yancy shook his head. “I don’t know, Governor. There just hasn’t been time to put it all together. I received a preliminary reply from our people in Washington this morning about Meadows. He’s the grandson of Angus Meadows, who owns the Meadows Line Shipping Company. That’s apparently how he got his appointment, through family influence. I understand his grandfather was a colonel on Grant’s staff during the war and still has considerable clout. I suspect he’s been a big financial backer for the President, but I have no evidence of that.

At any rate, Judge Meadows was highly thought of in Tennessee as a backwoods circuit rider. A bit of a buffoon, some say, but when he came up for approval in the Senate for this federal judgeship, he had no problem with confirmation. He was well qualified, I’m told, and he considers himself a man of the people.”

Davis snorted. “A man of the people? That’s a joke. A rich man’s son?”

“Well, it’s been said he left Harvard Law School after only two years because he couldn’t deal with the snobs there. He studied later with a man named
Wild Eye
Sagen who was a legend in the Tennessee hills. During the war Meadows served on board one of his grandfather’s ships. I think it would wise not to underestimate him. If he survived as a sailor, he must be pretty tough.”

Governor Davis turned in his chair to stare back out through the window, thinking. “Nonsense, Yancy. A sailor? He probably did that to avoid real service in the army.”

A loud crack of thunder reverberated through the window. Yancy flinched, glanced out over Davis’s shoulder. Another storm was bearing down on the city. He shrugged. “Well, maybe. But what are we going to do? If he keeps on as he has, he’ll destroy everything we’ve accomplished. His ruling on the reappraisal laws is a disaster. It’ll cost our supporters millions. Just think about all of the property they’ve picked up across the state. If they have to give it back—?”

Davis rose from his chair, paced back and forth, head down, jaw clamped tight. Yancy was right. The ruling would shake his administration to the core. Something had to be done. He stopped in front of his liquor cabinet, gave in and poured himself a stiff shot. He waved to Yancy to help himself, then continued to pace.

Yancy stared as the Governor moved forward, swiveled and turned as if on parade ground drill. Yancy shook his head. The man seemed to be losing control. He’d been drinking more than usual, was distant and hesitant about everything. Was this the time to move on? If the Governor lost his ability to make the hard decisions, everything could come apart.

Several minutes later, Davis stopped abruptly and looked up. The answer had come to him.
One court ruling is as good as another.
“Yancy, I want you to prepare an order for Judge Hook’s signature. I want it to rescind Judge Meadows’ decision on the reappraisal laws and specifically find they are legal and proper.”

Yancy looked at Davis, his mind racing. Yancy was not a lawyer, but understood the position Judge Hooks was in relative to Judge Meadows. Moreover, he would be making a ruling without an actual case before him. It would never stand up.

“But, Governor, Judge Hooks has no authority over Judge Meadows. They’re both U.S. Circuit Judges. He can’t overrule Meadow’s decision, only the Supreme Court can do that. Besides, Hooks has no authority to act without a specific case before him.”

Another thunderclap resounded, closer. Davis smiled. “So what? It will at least give us some respite. It’ll be a contrary decision in the same circuit. They will nullify each other until the Supreme Court acts, which could be months, even years. In the meantime, our supporters won’t be put off the lands they’ve taken and we’ll have time to deal with this buffoon, Meadows.”

Yancy began to smile.
It might just work. No, it would work, for sure.
“But, Judge Meadows will be madder than a wet cat and might try to find out more about Hooks. It could lead him to us.”

“I don’t think so.” Davis set his glass down on the bar and walked back to the window to watch the lightning display. “What we need is to discredit this Meadows fellow, maybe even get him suspended for misconduct. You said he roughed up Judge Oliver?”

“Yes. He shot a piece of Oliver’s ear off.”

Davis’s mouth dropped open, and then curled into a smile. “Perfect. Just perfect. That’ll look real good in the papers.

All right, Yancy, take care of it will you? We need a campaign to destroy this man, get him off our backs. When he gets to Austin he’ll think a ton of buffalo splat has fallen on him. Keep looking into his background. Once the initial attacks are over, we’ll need more if he doesn’t come around. Have you found out anything about his marshals?”

“No sir. It’s very strange. No one knows anything about them. It’s like they just popped out of thin air.”

“Well, keep at it. Something will show up. It always does.”

Yancy nodded and made his way toward the door. He felt strangely mellow. They were in a battle, a battle for which he’d prepared all his life. It would be fought on his turf, in his way. Even better, he would no longer have to worry about switching sides. If they could destroy Mobley Meadows politically and Richard Coke by association, they would have a better than average chance of winning the election. The public loved a good hero, but show him to be corrupt, or not what they thought him to be, they would vote for the opponent every time.
Just for spite
.

There was one last thing. Yancy turned and looked back at Governor Davis. “Have you heard from Ferdie Lance?”

Davis looked at Yancy for a moment and remembered his last experience with Ferdie. “I have no idea what he’s up to, but he doesn’t like this Judge Meadows. When he heard about the northern assault force being killed, I thought he would foam at the mouth. You know, of course, Ferdie is completely insane?”

Yancy nodded. “He certainly scares the hell out of me.”

“Me, too. Anyway, I think he’s out there somewhere plotting how to do Meadows in. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to worry about the good judge much longer.”

CHAPTER 22

Dark shaggy clouds hung low and drippy over Waco. The day had started gloomy, wet and cold. Mobley’s mood was almost as bad. Although he had slept clean and comfortable for the first time in weeks, he’d had mindlessly bad dreams, his thoughts whirling like a bucket of baitfish with the chum cutters grabbing at them.

First, there had been the one where President Grant dressed him down. Like a private who’d lost his rifle. But there had been no point or subject to it, just the yelling and stamping of feet. Then another where his mother, who’s face he’d still been unable to make out, clucked her tongue,
tsk tsk tssssk
, and waggled her finger in his face, over and over.
“If you’re going to do something, Mobley Meadows, do it right!”

Then, there had been Lovey Miner’s chuckle and mention of the fact that his jacket
did
smell like mildew. Of course, she had just been having fun with him, with no serious meaning behind it, because his jacket had in-fact been a tad ripe, but still … he’d shot off a piece of Judge Oliver’s ear for less. Of course, he’d never have done the same to Lovey, but the whole thing had him to thinking. And that, as he had long known, tended to put him down in the black hole.

His mucky mood may have rubbed off on Jack, for he had been unusually quiet and introspective, not his usual alert self. But Mobley had appreciated being left alone. The Miner family had given them a fine send off, but during the long ride into town Mobley kept after himself, going over everything. He’d hoped to come into Texas quietly, do what he had to do, and get on with the business of his circuit. He had not intended to jump into the middle of an election year ruckus, or become the focus of Governor Davis’s wrath. The question now was—
what would Davis do about it?

After hours of recrimination, he shook himself.
Stop it.
His only consolation, it seemed, was that he’d always done the same thing. Angus once told him a man who does not reflect upon his actions is a man doomed to repeat his errors, but to worry over spilt milk was counter-productive. Somehow, clichés did not help. He should not have shot a hole in Oliver’s ear.
Danged fool temper
. It had been getting him into trouble since he was a boy. One day, he figured, he would do something stupid in the heat of the moment and it would get him killed.

As they’d approached Waco, Jack’s level of concern and alertness increased. One minute he’d been quiet, the next he saw danger behind every bush. Mobley had come to admire Jack and respect his views, but Jack still seemed overly cautious. The whole thing now seemed foolish. Sneaking into town like a couple of coyotes stalking a house cat. Mobley was not used to so much worry. He’d always felt confident enough in his abilities and instincts that he had not concerned himself of safety. Nevertheless, he’d taken his friend’s advice.

His mood began to lighten as he bent his head down to sniff his clean jacket. Lovey had scrubbed it clean and rubbed some kind of fat and flower-oil mixture all over to make it as soft as new and smelling of
Bluebonnets
on the prairie.

A bee buzzed about his head, and he ducked. The clean smell drew the honey makers, but not flies. It was some gain, he thought. But, not if one decides to bite.

They crossed the toll bridge without difficulty, the collector apparently taking a long breakfast. They continued on into town, which seemed peaceful at that moment, none of the stampeding cowboys Edson had reported being in evidence.

Jack drew up, looking to both sides of Washington Street. He waved off to the left. “My guess is that Edson boarded his horse there in the livery and booked himself into that hotel across the street.”

Mobley scanned the street, quiet now in the early of the morning, and agreed with Jack’s assessment. “Let’s go see if you’re right.”

* * *

Jack laughed at Edson’s condition as they found and dragged him out of the clutches of Maggie Hoolihan. Mobley was not amused. He’d frolicked with a few women in his life, but somehow the ease with which Edson had managed to get himself tied up in such a short time in town, aggravated him. The moment of hilarity and aggravation passed quickly, though, when the puffy-eyed young man told of his meeting with Oliver’s disgruntled policemen, and about the cold-hearted killer named Ferdie.
What had that man’s role been in all this
?

When Edson was finally ready, bill paid and Maggie kissed one last time, Mobley mounted his horse and the three of them set off for the train depot. There was an answer to all this somewhere, he thought. He just needed to piece it all together. Problem was, he was not good at piecing things together, because he’d never allowed himself to become involved in conspiracy or plot, and did not ascribe such behavior to others.

Jack was right about one thing, though. Whoever was behind the
Comanchero
attack on Marsten had plenty of resources. All those Winchesters,—the gold.

Winchesters? Oliver’s men were carrying new rifles.
Mobley abruptly pulled Meteor to a stop in the muddy street. He may not be able to figure the why of it, but he could certainly collect and add up the facts in the meantime. That’s all a good investigator had to do, keep gathering the facts until even a blockhead could see where they led. Edson and Jack stared over at him curiously. He stepped down from his horse and pulled his docket book from the saddle bags. Somewhere in there he had recorded the serial numbers of the rifles taken off the dead
Comancheros
and those confiscated from Oliver’s men. After a few moments of study, he confirmed his fear. The numbers were consecutive. The rifles had all come from the same case lot. Whoever this government man was, he looked to be directly involved with the
Comancheros
as well as Judge Oliver.

* * *

Mobley stepped onto the boardwalk and scraped mud from his boots before looking up at the sign in front of the gunsmith shop. Jack and Edson did the same. The sign stated simply:
Ed Roos - Guns.

Ed Roos was an old curmudgeon. Wiley Miner had regaled them with stories of how Roos had served with
Three Legged Willie Williamson
in one of the first organized ranger companies out of San Felipe de Austin. Later, he’d fought with Sam Houston in the Texas War of Independence. But his days as a ranger had come to an end at the battle of
Elkhorn Tavern
when a Union cannonball destroyed his left kneecap. He’d not lost the leg, but it healed stiff and straight as a bedpost and prevented him from riding. He was not, according to Wiley, a happy man.

Mobley scraped more mud off his boots at the doorway mat, and then opened the door to the jingling of a spring-loaded bell. He ducked under the short door jam and stepped inside. Jack and Edson followed. A tall, skinny old man with wild white hair growing down to his collar looked up from his work behind the counter. It had to be Ed Roos. Beady little eyes stared out from a mass of facial wrinkles. The man said nothing.

“Howdy,” Mobley said as he walked up to the counter. The man’s face turned snarly, his upper lip pulled back. “We’ve come for a little information.”

Roos slammed his hand on the counter, startling an old hound dog asleep at his feet. “Then
get out
. This is a gunsmith shop, not a public gossip trough.” He turned back to his workbench, mumbled an oath, sat down and began tinkering with an old carbine.

Mobley looked at Jack, who glared back at Ed Roos. Edson was leaning against the wall, still hung over and clearly willing away the loud words. Mobley turned back to Ed Roos. “Well, you crusty old fart. We didn’t come in here to play pitty-pat with a senile old Texas war horse. We came here to get some genuine business done. You’ll get paid for your services, if they’re worth the powder to blow ‘em to hell.”

“Old fart, is it?” Roos jumped up, pivoted on his game leg and reached under the front counter for his pistol. “We’ll see who the old farrr—.”

Jack’s pistol came out in a blur and was under Ed Roos’s nose before the man could complete his sentence. Mobley was impressed. He’d thought for an instant of drawing his own pistol, but Jack’s move had beaten him to it. The draw had been smooth and very fast, nothing short of fantastic.

Mobley smiled, allowing his face to scrunch up. He leaned forward on the counter and stared hard. “Easy there, Mr. Ed Roos. We’re not here for trouble. I am United States Circuit Court Judge Mobley F. Meadows. These are my marshals, Jack Anthony Lopes and Edson Rabb. The marshals think you might have some information they need for an investigation they’re conducting. So, let’s all just settle down, and we’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Roos tried to step back, but the gun barrel followed him. Jack’s arm was stretched to the limit as the old man found himself up against his work bench, unable to go farther. He looked cross-eyed at Jack, respect beginning to show in his eyes. He hesitated, his eyes darting between Mobley and back to the gun barrel.

Then, his eyes widened. “Are you the judge who smote them Comancheros?”

Mobley crossed his arms on his chest. Word certainly had gotten around. “Indeed I am, although my marshals played no small role in that particular bit of unpleasantness.”

Roos tried to push Jack’s barrel away, but it didn’t budge. “Why didn’t you say so? Why, hells bells, I ain’t interested in killin’ no genuine Texas style hero, judge or not. What can I do for you boys?”

“Now, that’s a mite more sociable. Let him have his nose back, Jack. I think we can do business here.”

Jack slowly lowered his pistol, but did not put it back in his belt. Some people might trust a smiling Texas Ranger, but Mobley could see Jack Anthony Lopes was not one of them. Jack stepped back from the counter, expanding his field of fire and continued a hard glare.

Mobley put his rifle down on the counter under the appreciative eye of Ed Roos and reached into his saddle bags for the docket book. He dropped it on the counter in front of the now curious man.

“Mr. Roos, I have a list of serial numbers here, twenty five in all, belonging to a batch of new ‘66 Winchester repeaters. I wonder if you might be able to match them up with a buyer. We think it’s possible you sold the case lot these weapons came in.”

Roos continued to stare at Mobley’s new ‘73 Winchester, as he nodded his head. “If they were sold north of Austin and weren’t stolen from the army, I probably did sell them. Let me see those numbers.”

Mobley opened the book to the page where he had written down the rifle serial numbers. Ed looked closely at the numbers for a few seconds, smiled as he shook his head.

“Up to no good, ain’t he?” Roos looked up at Mobley, but received no answer. Roos snorted. “Government man, he said. Came in here about two months ago and commandeered all of the repeatin’ rifles I had, including these fifteen listed here. You said you had twenty-five numbers? Are they consecutive with these?”

“Yes, they’re all one after the other.” Mobley looked at Jack and back to Roos.

“I can check my records for you to be sure, but there’s no doubt in my mind. These weapons all came from a shipment I’d ordered for Wiley Miner. The numbers ring a bell.”

“Would you please check,” Mobley said. “We may need documentary evidence for a trial some day.”

“Sure ‘nuff, no problem. It’ll take a minute or two for me to find the record book. If you want, you can take the whole book for your proof. Just get it back to me when you’re finished. I have another I can use in the meantime.”

Mobley nodded. “That’s right nice of you, Mr. Roos. Now, what do we owe you for this service?”

“Why, nothing sir. If the law needs help, it can always count on Ed Roos, hero of the
Battle of San Jacinto
, Texas Ranger, upstanding citizen, and formerly one fine lookin’ young man.”

Even Jack had to laugh at that. He put his pistol back in its holster. Ed Roos disappeared into the back room of his shop while Jack, Mobley and Edson looked over the weapons on display in the small, well kept store. Roos was a collector of old guns as well as a seller of new. There were several antique French dueling pistols, a display case of Colt’s
Patterson
revolvers, many obsolete but salable Spencer repeating rifles, and one genuine Walker’s Dragoon horse pistol on special display. A plaque under the pistol declared,
“This Walker’s Dragoon used by Ed Roos during his years as a Texas Ranger.”

Mobley looked closely at the old weapon. It was in immaculate condition. “Whatever happened to the rangers, Edson? No one talks about them much anymore, least way’s far as I can tell.”

Edson started to answer, flinched one painful eye and placed his hand over the other. After a few seconds delay, he whispered. “They were disbanded after the war by Governor Davis. Good riddance, if you ask me. They were a dangerous bunch. Heroes to the early Texans, but their methods left much to be desired.”

“I can vouch for that,” Jack said, smiling at his friend’s obvious discomfort. “Down on the border the people were terrified of them. If I could’ve caught one of them, I’d be wearing his hide on my boots right now.”

Edson nodded. “I hear Richard Coke is saying he will reinstate the ranger companies if he is elected, but who knows. Governor Davis may surprise everyone and win the election yet.”

“Not likely,” bellowed Ed Roos as he came out of his back room. “That miserable sack of sheep dip won’t get a single vote he don’t buy, I’ll wager. He won’t even come up here,
the durn coward
. The people of Waco would string him up so fast you could hear the rope sing all the way to San Antonio and back.”