Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Page 7

  * * *

  “O’Yea, O’Yea, O’Yea. All those seeking justice come forward and make your presentments. The Circuit Court of the United States of America for the Western District of Texas, the Honorable Mobley F. Meadows, Judge presiding, is now in session. All be seated and come to order.”

  Juan felt strangely proud. The formal words were still unfamiliar, but they carried with them a sense of history and power. He could almost feel the kinship with his English ancestors from whom such litanies had descended. He looked at Mobley, who had stopped digging and was looking up at him with a smile.

  “How was that?”

  “Fine. I’ve never heard it sung better, but after calling the court to order, you and everyone else must use the term, Your Honor when talking to me. I don’t want to hear it any other time.”

  Mobley looked down his nose as if suddenly serious. “There’s one other thing. I think I mentioned this before, but I’ll do it again. Nobody calls me by any nickname, such as Moody, Motley, Moldy, or such like, and walks away with all of his limbs intact. A bunch of bullies used to do it to me when I was a boy, and it triggers my temper something awful. If you can thrash the man who does it before I can shoot his eyes out, please feel free to do so.”

  Juan chuckled, allowing a thin smile to crease his cheeks. He sat down and watched as Mobley put finishing touches to the grave, stepped out of the hole and dusted himself off. No way could he thrash a man before Mobley Meadows could shoot his eyes out.

  Mobley walked to his mule and took out a large book from a special leather pouch. He sat down next to Juan and started to write, reading aloud as he did so. Juan looked over his shoulder.

  “April 15, 1873. John Anthony Lopes, (he pronounced Lopes to rhyme with ropes) known by me to be a fine man and upstanding citizen, appointed Deputy United States Marshal. Remuneration: $50.00 / month. Additional duties: bailiff to the United States Circuit Court for the Western District of Texas. Badge to be supplied at a later time.”

  Juan felt his nose wrinkle, his brow tighten.

  Without waiting for Juan’s question, Mobley furrowed his own brow and looked down on him. “You’ll have to trust me, Juan. In a situation like this, we have to be realistic. I’m afraid some folks might squawk if we were to enter Juan Antonio Lopez as Deputy U.S. Marshal. Next thing you know, people would be trying to find out more, and they might discover your family history. Someday it won’t matter, but I’m afraid for now, you’ll have to swallow some pride. Would you rather have Smythe as your last name?”

  Juan looked down at his foot, paused, and then shook his head. “No, I don’t care much for having to do it, but you make a good point. Smythe was my mother’s maiden name. In this country, everyone goes by their father’s name. I’ll do the same. But, if it’s no bother, I would rather be called, Jack. I’ve never liked John. It’s too biblical for a rascal like me. My mother’s father was named, Jack. It sounds better.”

  * * *

  “Dear Lord, I am United States Circuit Judge Mobley Meadows, but, of course, you know all that … I suppose.” He paused. “I’m no preacher and have had no call to pray over anyone in this lifetime. I’ve dispatched my share of rowdies, for sure, but there was always someone else around to say whatever words were appropriate. This time, there just ain’t.”

  Mobley cleared his throat. “These here dead skunks lying before us are not likely headed in your direction, Lord, but just in case you’re feeling tenderhearted, you might keep in mind that some of them died well. Bravery while trying to lay your fellow man to rest ain’t much, but it’s all the good I can think to pin on these boys. Oh, and they were also kind enough to be present at a time when Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes needed a new horse and clothes, and that might count for something. I’m sure he is grateful. Well, that’s about all. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Jack performed the sign of the cross.

  Mobley put his hat back on, pulled it down snugly against the increasing breeze and reached for his shovel. Jack started to kick dirt into the hole, and then stopped to scan the horizon.

  Mobley looked up, saw nothing, and then turned back to the grave. “Let’s get a move on. If we don’t get away from the stink and these flabbergastin’ flies, I’m likely to lose my breakfast.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The valley of the Brazos seemed as peaceful as a Sunday morning, full of promise and sanctity. The grass had changed from its gray tint at sunrise to a bright green, while the far cliffs reflected reddish and white in the angled light of mid-morning. The river rushes were alive with activity, red winged blackbirds singing in their thousands, high pitched warbles all combined in a massive chime not unlike a boys choir all talking in high “C” at once. Swallows, White Egrets and long necked waterfowl of unknown species swooped and careened about their territories, all in a coordinated display that had probably been repeated at this very spot for hundreds of thousands of years.

  Every morning on the prairie was a wonder to Mobley, presenting various combinations of smells, of wet grass, a delicate scent of skunk weed, dynamic color changes, from sparkling dew to the flashing eyes of the coyote staring at him from the protection of the river breaks, no doubt judging its ability to take a bite out of his leg without suffering excessively in the process.

  Mobley nodded at the crouching animal, booted a bit more dirt onto the campfire, waited a moment for any final wisps of smoke to escape, and then reached for Meteor’s rein. The horses had been rounded up and were now milling nervously under Jack’s watchful eye. Mobley felt a momentary twinge as he looked down at the flattened mound of the Comanchero grave. A lot of dead men. For no good purpose.

  He looked up. Jack sat proudly on his black stallion. Small consolation. Jack had a new horse and a new life. But something was wrong. Jack began to stare hard toward the river with a look of alarm on his face. Mobley turned.

  “Do you see what I see, Mobley?”

  “Where?” Mobley swiveled his head, but saw nothing.

  “Over there, out on the grass by the river. I count eleven riders and they don’t look friendly.”

  Mobley raised his hand to shade his eyes from the morning sun. “Sweet mother, not again. For awhile there, I thought this prairie was empty, no people at all. Then it’s a pack of crazed Comancheros trying to eat my liver and steal my horse. Now a bunch more?”

  Jack pulled his hat down and squinted he eyes. “No, I don’t think so. They look like wranglers. They’re all carrying ropes on their saddles and wearing spurs. They’re well organized, too. Blast!”

  Jack’s voice began to rise in pitch. The black stallion began to bounce nervously about, as if sensing Jack’s anxiety. “Five of them are moving to cut us off. The others are coming head on. One of them is wearing a uniform.”

  Mobley squinted under his hat to get a better look. He could barely make the riders out. How Jack could see ropes and spurs was beyond him. He’d heard that men of the prairie sometimes developed incredible long range vision, but this was amazing.

  “You think they’re trailing after the Comancheros?”

  “Yes, but they’ll be wantin’ the horses more, and they’ll be asking no questions.”

  Pausing for a moment as he considered the rapidly unfolding situation, Mobley realized Jack was right. There would likely be a fight. They could run, try to shoot their way out, or go back into the fort. Unless—and this was exactly the reason he was out here—he could assert his authority as a circuit judge. Before that could happen, he would have to seize the initiative. Be bold. He turned and smiled at Jack, hoping it did not look as thin as it felt. “Looks like we’re going to have ourselves a little trial.”

  Jack’s mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. “A trial? Good Lord, man. Those men are bent on a hanging, not a trial. They’ve probably been chasing these horses for days, and haven’t eaten or slept. They’re mad and mean, and aren’t about to wait around for you to conduct some silly trial. They’re going to kill us. Let’s get the blazes out of here -- fast
.”

  It was already too late for that. Mobley could see the wranglers had whipped their horses into a full gallop and had cut them off from their route to Waco. There was no escape. Got to make it work. Take a deep breath.

  “Oh Ye of little faith. Get down off’n your horse and load that there buffler stick. We’re going defend the court, Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes, because it ain’t gonna run no more.”

  Jack reined the stallion around in a circle. “What are you talking about? What court? What are you going to do?” A look of fear close to panic spread over Jack’s face.

  “The only thing we can do, short of killing them all. If we run, they’ll catch and drag-hang us without waiting for either of us to take a piss or say our prayers. So, I’m going to walk right out there and talk to them, civilized like. If they take it in their heads to point guns at me, I want you to take off one of their hats. Hat, not head. I want no one hurt. After all, they probably think themselves in the right. Until the trial, we can’t know for sure what the right thing to do is, can we?”

  Jack shook his head, slapped his hat hard against his leg, but stepped quickly down and jerked his rifle from its scabbard. It was too late to run. They were cornered.

  Mobley walked quickly to his pack mule and pulled out a short ten gauge double barreled shotgun. He used it for game birds on the trail, but also carried a supply of triple-aught buckshot. At close range it could do terrible damage to a human being. At a range of twenty yards it could wreak carnage on several people at a time. But he didn’t want it for that. He wanted it for the fear it would instill. He loaded the shotgun, examined each of the Colt’s pistols in his waist band and turned to Jack.

  “I’m gonna walk out about a hundred yards. Remember, hat first. Use your Sharps. If everything falls apart, pick up my Winchester and start whittling them down. I’ll be doing the same with Old Ginny here. That Winchester has seventeen rounds in it, and I’ve just reset the sight for dead-on one hundred yards. It shoots true, so you should be able to take out every one of them if you don’t panic. Rest the weapon on the back of my horse. He’s trained to stand still as a rock when you start firing over his back. Good luck.”

  Jack nodded, his teeth clenched.

  Mobley set off toward the oncoming riders, pacing off one hundred yards as he did so. He knew Jack thought they were going to be killed, but he had not run when he might have done so, and that took a lot of courage from a man who had been running most of his life. Even now he was laying his Sharps rifle across Meteor’s back, a look of grim determination on his face.

  Mobley ended his one hundred yard count just as the wranglers and their uniformed leader charged in, lathered and snorting horses tearing up the sod as they pulled to a hard stop ten yards in front of him.

  Legs spread wide, Mobley planted himself firmly, the shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm. His thin-lipped smile was deliberately set, his deep voice forced under control. Talk slow and easy. These are country boys, not lawyers.

  “Howdy, boys. Y’all out for a Sunday picnic or more serious business?”

  The leader glared down from his dancing, lathered horse. His uniform bore the rank of a cavalry captain, Union Army, but was threadbare and looked one size too small. When he spoke, his voice was hard, without fear.

  “We’re out to hang some horse thieves, mister. You look to be in control of my animals. Therefore, I believe you to be the guilty party. That the way you see it, men?”

  A chorus of agreement followed. Several of the riders edged out from their bunched position in an apparent move to provide flanking fire, or perhaps to spread the risk posed by Mobley’s shotgun. One of the men stayed close to the leader as if prepared to protect him with his body if shooting started. He was considerably taller than the others and looked capable.

  Mobley maintained eye contact with the leader, but used his most disarming drawl. “Well, you’re mistaken, friend. And before any of you even think about pointin’ a weapon at me or making any further subtle moves, you should know your hat is going to lose its ability to keep water off’n your head, if you do. If you decide to do more, you’re all going to die, because that man over yonder with the long ol’ rifle pointed at your hearts is none other than United States Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes, and I ain’t never seen him miss. We just got through buryin’ fifteen thievin’ skunks who chose to question his shooting ability.”

  Several of the wranglers shifted nervously, saddles creaking as they strained to confirm Mobley’s words. Their darting eyes were no longer hard with confidence. But the captain was having none of it. “Well, hogwash!”

  The man began to pull his service revolver from its flap holster, but flinched as his handsomely braided cavalry hat flew off. A thin red line appeared on the top of his head where the centered part in his hair lay. The echoing boom of a rifle a half second later left no doubt as to the cause of the phenomenon. The man quickly moved his hand away from the pistol.

  “Easy, boys.” Mobley raised the shotgun in a quick move, leveling it at the captain. He willed his voice deeper and spoke as if addressing a classroom of rowdy children. “Let’s not panic here. I surely warned you. If y’all plan on meetin’ your maker before we can settle this here dispute, just go ahead and draw them pistols. The captain will be dead first, but the rest will soon follow. Make no mistake. You’ll be dead before you can think of your poor sainted mothers one last time.”

  The men all looked to the captain, who mopped his bleeding head with a pocket handkerchief. The situation had passed from his control. He clearly didn’t like it, but neither did he want more of that rifleman or the shotgun.

  “What’s the point of all this palaver, mister? You’ve got my horses and I want ‘em back. If you don’t give ‘em to me peaceful, I’m gonna take ‘em, whether your man over there kills some of us or not.”

  More of the wranglers squirmed, ducking their heads as if seeking cover, but none of them moved their horses. The tall man edged forward and closer to the captain. He was no coward.

  “It ain’t as easy as all that. Those horses now legally belong to the United States of America, having been declared forfeit as a result of crimes committed against the person of a United States circuit court judge. It’s all been entered final in the court’s records.”

  The captain looked shocked. “Court records? What court records?”

  Mobley stood a little taller and allowed a wry smile to spread across his face. “Why, mine, of course. I am United States Circuit Court Judge Mobley F. Meadows and I’m here to bring law and order to this uncivilized land. You can make your claim in my court, and I will do my best to see that justice is done. Whether it will be justice in your eyes or not, I cannot say. I will tell you about the law itself, apply that law to the facts here, and whatever comes out, comes out. It will be a legal judgment, enforceable at any time.”

  Mobley forced his eyes to narrow, stretching his forehead tight. “If, on the other hand, you choose the course of violence rather than legality, I must warn you that although you might liberate your horses, your possession will be temporary at best. For as soon as I reach Waco and engage the necessary marshals, we shall return and cause all of your property to be forfeit after we convict you of assaulting a United States circuit court judge and illegally converting property of the government to your own purposes.”

  “Assaulting? Hell, I ain’t assaulted you.”

  Mobley purposely flexed his jaw muscles and stared harder at the unsettled leader. “You have, sir! The crime of assault does not require actual physical contact. You were guilty when you tried to raise your weapon at me in a threatening manner. The crime itself is only a misdemeanor and wouldn’t normally get you hung. But the illegal taking of government property is a felony for which the penalty might range from ten years at hard labor to death by slow choke. I am, however, willing to consider the mitigatin’ circumstances of your actions, heat of passion and such-like, but only on condition you submit willingly to trial of
your claim on its merits.”

  Allowing his threat to sink in, Mobley paused and shifted his weight. “You must know, as well, that your claim for the return of these horses will necessarily cause a counterclaim for damages to be entered by my Deputy Marshal, Jack Anthony Lopes.”

  “Counterclaim? Damages? What the hell are you talking about?”

  The man was obviously perplexed. It was unlikely he’d heard such law talk before, but Mobley could see it was having the desired effect. The man’s entire bearing had changed. He knew this was for real. The subtle reactions of the rest of the men said they had come to the same conclusion. The tall man now began to edge away from his leader.

  “I must warn you, sir. When my court is in session, I will tolerate no profanity from anyone.”

  Mobley slowly drew back his lips and glared. He was unable to match the maniacal look Wild Eye Sagen had used to scare the men he was about to sentence—before he granted them leniency—but he could see his message was getting through. “The integrity of the court will be maintained. The penalty for contempt is quite severe. Do you get my meanin’?”

  A look of amazement tinged with fear spread across the captain’s face as he stared back at Mobley. He cleared his throat. “I believe I do, sir.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get on over to the bench and get on with this trial.” Mobley turned abruptly and walked back toward Jack, who kept his rifle trained on the riders.

  The tall wrangler began to look around. “Bench? What bench?”

  “Shut up, Edson,” the captain barked. “We’re in enough trouble as it is without you stirring things up. Damnation! OOPS, sorry, judge.”

  Mobley ignored the captain’s apology. He’d made his point. No use overdoing it.

  CHAPTER 8

  “O’yez, O’yez, O’yez.” Jack sang the rest of the court opening litany at the top of his lungs, his deep, powerful voice catching the wranglers off guard. They jumped back, alarmed at the strange sounding words and the force with which Jack pronounced them. He could see they were certain now. Something very important was happening. Until he’d instructed them to sit down and come to order, Jack knew most of them had no idea what had been said.