PART I – Leah
May 1881
Chapter 3
The Lynch Party
The horse heaved with every breath and foam lather flopped onto the road in a puff of dust as the girl reined the horse to an immediate stop. She too was taking ragged breaths as she swung herself off and threw the reins around the hitching post. "Sorry ol' fellow," she patted the animal's neck as she raced up the boardwalk to the window.
Nick Barkley was just finishing sending off a message to Carson City and the telegraph operator was just closing his windows. "Wait sir!" the girl skidded up to the window as her dark braid went swinging, still panting and trying to catch a breath. "Please wait," she pleaded. "I need to get two telegrams off at once."
"I'm closed miss, you'll have to wait until in the morning."
"But it's urgent. It's life or death."
"Sorry miss," the clerk shook his head and was about to close the windows just as Nick slammed the palm of his hand against the flat surface, making both the clerk and the girl jump.
"The lady asked for you to send off a message for her. I'd suggest you do it," his tone brooked no nonsense.
She gave him a weak and tired smile as she handed the papers to the thin little man. "Okay, its five cents a word," he told her. She dug around in her grey divided skirts for the money.
"That should cover it," she was still breathing hard, though no longer panting.
"Okay, you got a message to a Jarrod Barkley in Stockton and a Nick Barkley in Carson City," the man read the names at the top of each paper.
"Who?" Nick demanded.
The girl's eyes flickered towards him. "Nick Barkley. Do you know him?" She seemed to be growing excited.
"Yes, I believe I do. I'm Nick Barkley," he paused, remembering her urgent words to the telegrapher. "You said it was a matter of life or death?"
"You have a brother named Heath?" she asked. Nick nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid he's going to be…lynched." She ended.
"Lynched? Where?"
"Never mind that second message," the girl took the paper back. "But please go ahead and send the other one," she turned her attention back to Nick. "Can you come with me? It's a day's ride, but I aim to get back to Haven before morning."
"Not on that horse," he nodded to the poor animal.
She shook her head. "No, I need to get another mount from the livery."
"All right I'll take care of it," Nick nodded. "You can tell me what all this is about on the way to Haven."
There were angry shouts and ruckus going on in the streets of Haven as the night wore on. Billy and Jasper were buying the drinks and feeding the men stories about the man sitting in jail. The fever had begun to spring from all over.
O'Leary had managed to spend the whole day in his bed and without drinking anything but water. While his thoughts remained sober he began to seriously think about Leah. He'd neglected her this past year.
He sat up and stifled a yawn as he scratched in his scraggly beard. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved. Now would be his best time to do so. He had the shakes and he dearly wanted a drink, but he thought about how many hours already he'd been without one. His insides crawled and his head ached.
Leaning against the wall he sat there trying to think of something other than drinking. A good pot of coffee was what he needed. He knew Leah kept some around the house somewhere.
Getting the water on to boil he sat down at the kitchen table and rested his head in his hands. He needed to make some changes in his life. Just because the only woman he'd ever loved and who loved him in return had died on him didn't justify him taking it out on Leah. She deserved so much better than that. Better than this town, crawling now with those Beardsleys.
O'Leary thought of this man she'd mentioned. He meant something to Leah, he could tell it in her voice remembering the tone she'd used. And he was in trouble. If O'Leary knew the Beardsley brothers they were riling the town up for a lynching. And that would mean that Sheriff Jenkins wouldn't have much help against them.
He finished brewing his coffee and sat at the table pondering. It took him a long time to come to a decision on his pondering, but before the sun set he had gathered up his rifle and ammunition and headed towards the sheriff's office.
For the most part the crowd around the sheriff's office had simply left their disgruntlement to shouts and "discussion." If you could call it that. The liquor was running deep out there, and Sheriff Jenkins knew he was out numbered. His deputy had walked out on him that morning to join the riff raff wanting to hang the young fellow.
Jenkins wasn't sure if he believed in the man's innocence or not, but he did have a job to do and that was to keep the man alive until the marshal came through town. He'd have sent his deputy Brady after the marshal if he'd not gone out to side with the Beardsleys.
It was a dilemma. He was one man, only able to fire one gun at the time. How was he to keep the man safe until his trial? He looked at the rifle and pistol the man had been carrying. Should he trust the man enough to let him have it when they came? He might have a chance, but, he argued, if he were not innocent then he, Jenkins, was letting the man go free. Which was right?
Mrs. Hart had brought over his supper and the young man's. Jenkins uncovered the tray before taking it into the cells, his rifle in his right hand. The blonde cowboy turned his blue eyes on him. "Ready for your supper, Barkley?" Jenkins tried to sound cheerful as he set his rifle against the wall opposite the cells. The man had not moved as Jenkins unlocked the door and stepped inside. "Mrs. Hart's best stew."
"Thank ya," he nodded as Jenkins turned away. He was closing up the door when the man spoke again. "They're getting read for a lynching ain't they?"
Jenkins sighed and stared at him for a long moment. "Yes, they are." He didn't say anything else, but Jenkins had the feeling that he young man was pondering something. He seemed like the type of fellow who needed to think things through.
Before Jenkins had locked the cell door a loud pounding on the door distracted him as he instinctively grabbed his rifle. He headed back out into the main room and crossed it to the door. "Who's there?" he demanded.
"It's O'Leary, Jenkins," the man's voice was clear. He sounded as if he were sober, but Jenkins was wary.
"What do you want O'Leary? I don't want any trouble with you."
"I don't want any either, but you've got a pile of it out here. I want to help."
Jenkins waited a moment. Should he trust this man who half the time was senseless drunk and who could possibly have been put up to confronting him by the Beardsleys? He honestly didn't want to kill the man. Cautiously he opened the door. "What is it O'Leary." He glanced at the rifle cradled in the man's arm and the gun belt around his waist.
"Your deputy walked out today," it was a statement, not a question. "I aim to help you when they come," O'Leary nodded, stepping inside as if he hadn't been laid out in the livery stall the day before.
"O'Leary, they say you claim this young fellar kidnapped Leah. Why do you want to help now?"
O'Leary turned to him with a sigh. "I don't remember it, Jenkins and if I did say that then I was drunk at the time. You know how I get," Jenkins nodded as O'Leary scratched his neck. "But all that's beside the point. The man didn't kidnap Leah, he's Leah's friend and I suspect I owe her something for what's she's had to endure the past few months."
Jenkins stared at him and nodded. "All right O'Leary. Where is Leah anyway?"
"She rode out earlier, she was coming here, but then she disappeared."
"She was here, and left with some messages from Barkley. You don't suppose she went to get them sent off at the telegraph office in Reno?"
A frown crossed O'Leary's face. "I hope not, Jenkins. I'm afraid those Beardsleys are keeping an eye out on any traffic from anywhere outside."
"I agree with you, O'Leary," the man shrugged. "But there's precious little I can do."
Time seemed to pass slowly. After a while of keeping an eye on the streets, O'Leary went in to talk with Barkley. "Howdy," he nodded to him. "I here tell you're name's Heath Barkley. One of those Stockton Barkleys."
Heath shifted on the cot where he'd been quietly thinking. "I here you're name's O'Leary. Leah's guardian."
"Yep," the older man leaned a shoulder against the cool bars. "I suppose I was. I ain't been the best to her though. Could a done a lot more I suppose. Things a girl needs, ya know?" Heath didn't answer and O'Leary went on. "Guess I've been drowning in my own sorrows too often and missed the fact that she was growing up and might have needed some protection." He shrugged.
"What do you know about the Beardsley brothers?" Heath asked suddenly, and O'Leary shifted.
"Not much. They came here over a year ago from somewhere in the east. Nobody questioned them too much. Just ain't the way, ya know." Heath nodded understanding the western code of not prying into a man's past. "But after they set up here, things started happening. A horse stolen here, a chicken or two missing, mebee a broken window or two. Things like that. Nobody ever saw who it was and occasionally it seemed to happen to the Beardsleys so no one thought too much of it. But then…Ellen was killed. It was the first time someone was killed in one of these villainous acts," he swallowed hard to keep down his emotions.
"Why didn't you bring in the marshal?" Heath questioned.
O'Leary shrugged. "There wasn't no evidence. No body could say it was the Beardsleys, me or even Jenkins who coulda killed her. Marshal did come and look, but that's what he said." He sighed. "I best get back out front. I think they're still restless out there."
"We're gonna have to let that young fellar out when the shooting starts," O'Leary told Jenkins when he returned to the front room. Jenkins bristled a little. He didn't like the former drunk telling him how to run things.
"I'll make that call when the time comes."
"Do you want innocent blood on your hands?" O'Leary challenged with a glint in his eye.
"No, but either way I look at it there'll be," Jenkins sighed, shrugging. "What can I do? What if the man really is a horse thief?"
"It's a hanging offense, Jenkins, not a lynching one. And it's up to the marshal and he hadn't killed no body in this situation, even according to Platt and the Beardsleys."
"Maybe so," Jenkins was staring out into the darkened street. "But I can't just let him go."
The night wore on. They went through three pots of coffee and O'Leary and Jenkins took turns dozing off. A cool breeze flowed through one of the windows as the morning dampness settled over the town.
It was Jenkins who was dozing, his head bowed over his chest when the crowd finally erupted. O'Leary had begun to hope that they'd drunk themselves out of it, but it seemed that it was now impossible. "Wake up Jenkins," he called over his shoulder. "And give that fellar a gun. We're about to begin our war."
(To be continued…)
