Canyon War Read online

  The night sounds in the Palo Duro Canyon were deafening. Thunderous katydid and cricket chirps echoed off the walls and up to the rim where Clem Baxter stood. He could hardly hear his own thoughts for all the racket. But he preferred the clatter of night critters to his brother’s low grumbling.

  Woodrow Baxter stood slightly behind him, right where Clem wanted the second oldest son of the Baxter Ranch. He could hear Woodrow shifting his feet despite the night sounds croaking up from the canyon.

  "Clem, I'm not going against you on this, even though I don't think it's altogether right. But there's no point in waiting for the Lowells to show up. Let's set off the charge now, and get out of here."

  "Pa always said you were yellow, a bad influence on Kurt."

  Clem didn't have to turn to know his brother stiffened. But Woodrow wouldn’t dare go up at him, no more than he would their father, barely cold in his grave.

  Pa had left Clem, his oldest son, in charge of the Baxter Ranch when he passed of a rattlesnake bite he’d gotten in that very canyon. They were returning home after a confrontation with the Lowell family. The patriarch was in such a state he hadn't been aware of the danger until it struck.

  Clem heard Woodrow pivot on his boot heel and clomp away toward their horses. Good. As long as he kept Woodrow off balance, he kept him under his thumb. Clem was a little off balance himself after the swig of whiskey he’d taken before they rode out to the canyon, but that didn’t effect his judgement, or his rightful place.

  His other two brothers, Van and Kurt, came up to him. Kurt was the spindly twenty-two year old who took after Woodrow too much. The Baxters were supposed to be a tough lot, feared and respected in the area for their fierce determination to build the largest spread around the canyon, no matter who got crushed in the process. Like the Lowells.

  The Baxters were a long way from that goal, and Woodrow and Kurt added black marks to the family’s reputation.

  Kurt whispered, "Clem, can I wait with the horses when it's time?"

  Clem rounded on him, making Kurt take a step back. Pa had demonstrated that if he couldn't earn the respect of someone, he'd force it from them. In the light of the full moon, Kurt’s gaunt face was drawn and pale. He’d never grow up.

  Clem said, “You keep whining and I'll have you set the charge off instead of helping Van do it.”

  Van, the youngest and quickest tempered of the four, took a step forward. He was short, brown haired and eyed like their father, and with enough aggressiveness to do whatever he needed to, but with barely enough smarts to keep it in check. "You said I could set off the charge, Clem. Pa wouldn't let you go back on your word."

  Clem glared at him. "Don't be telling me what Pa would or wouldn't do." He turned his authoritative gaze on Kurt. "And you're going to do what I say, even if it kills you."

  Kurt rubbed his palms up and down his pant legs, looking bare without the six gun Clem expected him to have. He didn't push it, not even on this night, not since Kurt had nearly blown off one of his own toes trying to follow Clem’s orders to quick draw and shoot tin cans a day after they buried their father.

  Kurt couldn't handle himself worth a rock, but Clem was going to make a man out of him yet, same as their father had been trying for 10 years. The Baxter boys were expected to become men at a young age to survive in the Texas Panhandle.

  Woodrow joined them again. "Someone does need to stay with the horses when the ruckus starts, Clem. Why don't you let Kurt instead of me—”

  Clem gripped the butt of his revolver, a threatening gesture their father had often used when the boys got too big for the belt. He had pistol whipped Clem more than once.

  "He'll do just what I say,” Clem growled. “You all will."

  Van's head jerked to the right, squinting in the moonlight to the canyon floor. Clem gritted his teeth. His brothers had distracted him from keeping a sharp ear to distinguish the canyon sounds from invaders. The Lowells and their stinking sheep were coming up the canyon eight hundred feet below where the Baxters stood. Them Lowells thought they could sneak by in the cover of darkness.

  Clem hissed at his brothers, “Don't just stand there like fools. Get in position, but Van, don't set off that charge until I give the signal."

  Van slapped Kurt’s arm and darted off and over the rim on the narrow trail. Kurt followed, kicking up dust like Clem had warned them not to. Clem met Woodrow's eyes, his brother standing a half head taller than him. But Pa said the size of a man didn't matter. He just needed to keep an edge over Woodrow.

  "You get back and stay with the horses. Home’s a long walk from here."

  Woodrow didn't move, holding Clem’s gaze longer than he should have. But he broke away in the nick of time and headed down to where the Baxters had corralled their horses among a half moon of boulders.

  Clem released his grip on his six gun and edged to the canyon rim. He got down and crawled the rest of the way forward, removing his hat and stilling himself to get in tune with the night sounds and hone in on the sight of the Lowell men afoot, driving their sheep through the rugged terrain of the Palo Duro. They were trying to sneak through a passageway to the corral and cabin set up at the other end in an offshoot of the canyon. There was a spring down there and patches of green grass this time of year. The Lowells intended to use despite Clem’s warning that the Baxter patriarch had claimed use of it two years ago.

  Settlers and ranchers had been scrapping over grazing rights in the 60-mile long canyon for some time. The Baxters had their territory staked and no sheepherder settlers were going to infringe on it.

  Clem waited, taking his breath in and holding it. If they set off the charge too soon, they would fail to catch the lead sheep in the rockslide. Too late, and they would catch the Lowell bunch in the slide. Clem wouldn't mind seeing them all buried, but his pa had warned him that dead bodies brought lawmen circling like buzzards.

  Clem glanced to his right where Van was squatted next to the blasting machine to set off the dynamite. They'd strategically placed it before dark on the wall of the canyon, behind enough large rocks to block the passageway. The Baxters had another way into that section of the canyon that the Lowells didn't know about. This would be enough to stop them from ever finding it.

  Clem looked for Kurt and swore under his breath when he saw him huddled a good fifteen feet back from Van. He told Kurt to stay close in case there were any problems, and to watch for the signal to give to Van. Kurt wasn't even looking at him. He was watching the canyon floor. So was Van.

  Clem hissed, “Hey!”

  Neither brother heard him, intent on watching the approaching sheep as the Lowells came around the final bend before the passageway.

  Relying on the night noises and baying of the sheep echoing up from the canyon, Clem hissed louder, “Hey!"

  Kurt’s head jerked and Clem flagged with his hat. Even in the darkness, Clem could see Kurt’s eyes go wide as he realized his negligence. He bolted forward and said something to Van. Immediately, Van shoved the handle down on the blasting machine and the entire canyon seemed to explode.

  The solid rock of the rim beneath Clem shook violently and he used his hat to cover his head as a spray of rocks rained over him. The smell of dusty earth and stale sweat choked him, but he kept his head down until the shaking stopped and the rocky rain quit falling.

  He scrambled to his feet, dizzy and more unsteady than he wanted his brothers to see. But none of them were in sight.

  Clem scooted over the edge of the rim, catching himself on hardwood shrubs to keep from sliding over the edge and the eight hundred foot drop below. But he wasn't looking for his brothers, not yet. First he had to see if they’d been successful.

  Through the haze of gray dust, he made out the landscape that he
was so familiar with. More than twice the amount of rock he'd figured had shot off the wall and rumbled to the floor. It rested there, along with tons of other rock that had bounced loose in the wake of the larger boulders.

  The passageway was sealed.

  Clem wished he had more light, but from what he could see, a remnant of the sheep herd was running mad away from the slide, braying in high-pitched tones. Clem smiled. Dumb sheep, just like their owners.

  But where were their owners?

  He scanned the canyon and saw movement not belonging to the critters. The Lowells were chasing after the sheep, echoes of their shouts reaching Clem. One of the men below halted and turned. Though Clem was hidden in the shadow of the rim above him, he felt the man's gaze, loaded with hate, land on him. In the dark, Clem recognized Sam Lowell, the oldest son of the Lowell clan. Sam would know the rockslide was no accident.

  He and Clem had come to blows on their last encounter, right before Pa was snake bit. Clem would settle that score eventually. For now, the destruction of half the sheep herd was enough, and more than one of their men was limping. Looked like one was carrying another man slung over his shoulder.

  Once Clem was certain they were fleeing and not making an attempt to climb the steep wall in blind rage, he turned his gaze to the ledge where his two brothers had been. The blasting machine was there, but Van and Kurt weren't.

  Clem couldn't reach the ledge from where he was so he climbed back up to the rim and went to the next step down ledge, Woodrow coming behind him. Clem turned on him.

  "I told you to stay with the horses."

  Woodrow didn't back down. “Are you deaf? I heard Van hollering for help.”

  Clem itched to backhand his brother, same as their father would've done if Woodrow talked to him that way. But he'd save that fight for another time. He did hear Van calling.

  The two oldest Baxter brothers scrambled down the narrow trail that the younger ones had taken to reach the ledge. Van limped toward them, half dragging Kurt with one arm slung over his shoulder. Kurt looked dead, but Clem saw him move his feet in an effort to walk with Van.

  Woodrow rushed to Kurt’s other side and quickly wrapped his brother’s arm around his shoulder, lifting him from the ground and stumbling forward. Clem backed up the trail, talking to Van.

  "What happened?"

  Van had a stream of blood running down the side of his face, but true to Baxter form, he didn't complain.

  "That explosion rocked me off my feet. Sent me over the edge. Kurt pulled me up, but the ledge gave way and he tumble down aways. Didn’t you hear me hollering?"

  Clem kept backing up the ledge, feeling for his footing as he went, not wanting to show any weakness before his three brothers.

  "You did good. You all did good. Let's get Kurt home and fixed up.”

  Right when they topped the rim, Kurt screamed and his back jerked. With the convulsions, Van and Woodrow couldn't hold onto him and quickly lowered him to the ground. Kurt arched, gripping his back and crying. Pa never would put up with crying from his sons, no matter how bad they were hurt. But there was something in Kurt’s screams that chilled Clem to the bone.

  Van stood back, wiping blood from his eyes with his dirty shirt sleeve. Woodrow gripped Kurt, pinning him to the ground and holding him still. He looked up at Clem, eyes wide. It was the first time Woodrow had looked at him for direction and Clem snapped into action. He pointed at Van with his hat.

  "Ride into Amarillo and bring a doctor back to the ranch house. Don't get that town doctor that didn't treat Pa right. There's some kind of special doctor there that was helping out with measles they had in town. Called Doc Beck. Bring him. And don't go into town alone. Pick up that Jimmy kid and take him with you."

  Van spit blood. “Town’s 20 miles from the ranch house."

  “Hell’s closer if you'd rather go there. Otherwise, get riding.”

  Chapter One

  Late night knocking always meant trouble for Rebekah LaRoche. But she’d rather be needed at all hours than not wanted at all.

  The hammering at the front door of the Garland house continued as Rebekah threw her robe over her nightgown. She entered the dark front room, drawn curtains not allowing in the moonlight. But having stayed in this house the past three weeks gave her the ability to navigate between the sofa and wingback chair that stood in front of the fireplace.

  She’d let the fire die down with evening, though springs in Amarillo could be chilly. She preferred a little nip in the air at night, finding it gave her deeper sleep and alertness when she needed it. She needed it now.

  Rebekah had checked her small pocket watch when the pounding started and noted it was 1:10a.m. She tucked the watch in her robe pocket and peeked sideways through the closed curtain over the glass window of the front door. The Garland’s home wasn't ornate, but it was a fine place to stay while they were out of town, and gave her quiet reprieve from the hospital each day.

  Rebekah suspected someone from the hospital had sent for her but the continuous knocking was so rude, her instincts told her this was a different sort calling on her.

  Through the tiny split in the curtains over the door, Rebekah could see a scrawny sandy-haired boy standing on the porch. He wore a purple bandana and had his hands sunk in his short tan jacket pockets, showing the six gun he wore.

  Rebekah shifted the other way as the pounding stopped. Another young man, older than the first and shorter, stood outside the door, a scowl on his face. He looked undecided then raised his hand as if to rap again.

  Rebekah unlocked the door and swung it open, causing him to hit air.

  "Excuse me, young man, but you will soon have every dog in town barking.”

  She took note of the caked-over cut on his forehead partly covered by his hat. Her heart softened. “Is there some sort of emergency here?”

  His voice was dry and husky as he said, “We’re looking for Doc Beck."

  “I'm Dr. Rebekah LaRoche."

  His uncertain expression deepened. "But you're a woman."

  “And you’re a keen observer. Now, what is the emergency?”

  The young man stared at her, dumbfounded. The sandy haired boy, situated behind him, stepped forward.

  His eyes were just as wide in shock, but he stammered, “Ma'am, we got a hurt man out at the Baxter Ranch. We need a doctor, bad."

  Rebekah eyed the two. "You will need to bring him into the hospital. I don't make house calls in the middle of the night with strange men.”

  The boy started to respond, but the other cut in. "If you're a doctor, then you're gonna come take care of my brother. Right now."

  There weren't many good reasons Rebekah could think of why these young men didn't want to go to the established town doctor. But they did seem genuine in their concern. They looked exhausted and scared beneath their stout demeanor.

  Rebekah’s heart caught up with her tongue. Still, she held her ground. "As I said, you need to go to the hospital or town doctor. I’m only passing through and will be leaving on the afternoon train—”

  "You're coming with us right now!"

  The young man's hand went to his six gun, gripping the handle and partly pulling it from the holster. The sandy haired boy put out a hand to block his arm.

  “Van, you can't draw down on a woman!”

  "Shut up, Jimmy. This gal is gonna do what I say or I'll blow her head off."

  Rebekah kept a firm grip on the door handle, her hand tingling. She could slam and lock the door and possibly get to her bag in the bedroom before they broke through, but that wasn't her smartest move. She still had some diplomacy left to try.

  Taking a deep breath in outward resignation, she said, “Since you put it that way…I am a doctor, and it sounds like someone needs help. I'll get dressed and come with you."

  "You'll come with us like you are,” Van said.

  Rebekah scowled at him, but she knew to pick her battles. This wasn’t it. She stepped out on the porch in the cool night air and c
rossed her arms while keeping her gentile posture.

  "I will need my medical bag."

  Van shoved his revolver back into his holster and nodded at Jimmy. "Get it. Quick."

  Rebekah sighed. "It's in the bedroom to the left at the foot of the bed."

  Jimmy met her eyes, looking apologetic as he smiled a little. He couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen with that baby face. He dodged inside and came back a minute later with her bag. Rebekah started to take it, but he held it close.

  "I'll carry it for you, ma'am. It's awful heavy."

  "Tools of my profession."

  They would never guess what lay in the bottom that added so much extra weight.

  Chapter Two

  In her many years of life—thirty-four to be exact—Rebekah had endured all sorts of rough traveling. Even at a young age, from being born in a teepee in Nebraska to living in a log cabin on the Omaha Reservation, she had known she would be someone on the move. Although after medical school, she’d expected to settle down in one location to practice. But she often found patients couldn't come to her. She had to go to them.

  Now that she was no longer allowed home on the reservation, she found herself on the move more times than not.

  Still, she wouldn't mind admitting the unpleasantness of riding behind the saddle, clinging to a boy as they rode full gallop in the dark across the Texas Panhandle as the cold night air ripped through her robe and nightgown. Rebekah could think of far better ways of traveling.

  When they finally pulled up in front of a ranch-style house, she decided against making any remarks on how stiff and cold she was.

  The boy, Jimmy, swung his leg over his horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. The horse shied and Rebekah gripped the cantle to keep from falling off. Jimmy turned and held his hands up as though to swing her down. Instead, she pulled herself forward into the seat, found the stirrup, and dismounted.

  Jimmy kept his hands out as if waiting to catch her, but grinned when she turned to face him. "You've ridden astride before, ma’am.”

  "More times than you have, young man."