Ben Carrier, a dry goods clerk, got one good look at Creighton and fainted into the arms of Louise Hampton, the church organist.
Buck lay unconscious in the street. Buddy continued to pound Keenan, who had since rolled himself into a ball. Katie was on Buddy’s back, trying to pull him off.
Muted punches of fists on flesh could be heard amidst the crashes and screams. A chair could be heard splintering against the wall. A Spurlock was shouting about “losing his future family”, except not in those words. There was a loud bang and whoosh which brought a gasp from the crowd. A flame flickered inside. “Fire!” yelled a McMahon.
An explosion of flames spit another Spurlock out of the bar. His face was black. Smoke billowed from his hair.
Sam scribbled and mumbled to himself, “One gas heater.” He looked up and peered into the bar. Then he went back to his ledger. “One mahogany stairwell.”
The piano let out one final wail of protest telling everyone that a body had been thrown on top of the keys. Then, all went quiet.
Outside, a tired Buddy fell away from the beaten up Keenan. The people stood in the middle of the street, listening for one last punch. A hand appeared on the floor just under the swinging doors. It made a fist and pounded the wooden floor. A soft moan was heard. The fight was over.
Later, Sam the bartender figured damages to be around seven hundred dollars. Two tables were totally destroyed, seven chairs were beyond repair. Numerous glass objects had been broken and the stairwell was suspect because of the fire. The bar itself had deep scratches and several dented places that contained blood and hair.
In the end, the McMahons and Spurlocks grudgingly split the expense. The “fight of the century” became another chapter in the feud. No actual deaths had occurred, but the blood between them remained as bad as a rabid wolf.
The feud had come to a boil again when part of Spurlock’s livestock had been rustled. Spurlock sent three of his sons to go shoot up the McMahon’s henhouse and burn their stable. If they could recover the stolen cattle, even better.
“Mr. Foster?”
Treva’s voice brought me out of my nightmarish thoughts of the Spurlock-McMahon feud. “You want me to help.”
The young girl’s voice trembled. “We have no sheriff, no law of any kind. I’m afraid my daddy will kill a McMahon, or get himself killed.”
I nodded.
She continued, “I thought I could rely on your wisdom to settle this problem.”
Yes, I thought. Solomon was my middle name. I had his wisdom. And any man who would get in between the Spurlocks and McMahons was a fool. I knew that much.
“Mr. Foster, could you talk to Daddy? He respects you and so does Mr. McMahon. I know it.”
She knew it all right. The fact was, Treva Spurlock was head over heels in love with Danny McMahon. Their generation was longing for peace between the families. This quickened in my mind as I spied a head ducking in the side window. No one could mistake the red hair of a McMahon.
“Danny, come in here,” I called out.
Danny McMahon slowly made his way through the front door. At fifteen, he was six feet tall and dwarfed little Treva as he stood by her.
“Hello Mr. Foster.”
I looked at both kids with my stern, schoolmaster glare. “What do you propose I do, other than talking to your fathers?”
Danny took Treva’s hand in his. His voice was as quiet as hers. “We want you to stop this silly behavior between our families. My brothers did not rustle cattle.”
I took my knife out and whittled the wood around the lead point of a pencil. “I understand what you want, but you still haven’t told me how.”
They looked at each other. Their faces had no answer. Treva spoke. “We thought you might know what to do.”
I sharpened the pencil to a fine point and blew the dust off. For a long moment I was quiet. Both young Spurlock and McMahon stayed as still as stagnant water, watching me with wide eyes. “I’ll put a study to your problem. That’s all I can promise. If a solution can be found, I’ll let you know.”
They both gave me sober nods and slowly headed out of the room. Watching them, I was reminded of a Shakespeare play called Romeo and Juliet. Centuries after it was written, the play still related to modern times. I also remembered it did not end well.
I rode up to see Jed Spurlock that afternoon. He was not happy that a wet-behind-the-ears teacher was sticking his nose into his ranching business.
“You learned Treva pretty good, Teacher. But you don’t know nothing about running cattle.”
“Yes sir, but how do you know it was the McMahons who stole your cows?”
Jed gave me a mean smile. “Angus McMahon is crooked as Snake River in winter. I’ll bet my granny’s glass eye that there are cattle with the Spurlock brand, grazing on the plains of Mexico right now.”
Since Mexico was pretty far from Colorado, I was tempted to take that bet and teach Jed a little geography as well. A man never knows when he’ll need a glass eye.
“But sir, I—”
Jed held up his hand. “The McMahon’s took several prize heifers and sold them. Check around town and see if they haven’t been throwing newfound money around.”
I could see I was talking to a stone wall. I doffed my hat at Spurlock and thanked him for his time.
“You keep your nose in your books young man,” said Jed. “If Angus and his thieves come back for more, there will be blood in the streets.”
I stopped. “How do you know they’ll be back?”
“I’m short hands. Half my men headed for New Mexico territory for that silver strike.”
A vein of silver had been discovered near the Gila River down south. Half of Colorado moved in that direction to get rich. Even Mr. Conklin, the staid banker of Pleasant Valley got the fever. He packed up his wife and dogs and put his son-in-law in charge of the Valley Bank.
Spurlock spat into his tin cup. “I’m trying to keep my herds close, but I don’t have enough men to keep watch all night.”
This gave me an idea. “Excuse me sir, but maybe I could help.”
Spurlock looked unconvinced. “How?”
“I’ll bet I could round up some extra men to watch over your herd. Let me have a couple nights while your men get their sleep.”
Jed Spurlock’s face was still as he mentally looked for an argument to this. Apparently, none came to him. “Okay son. My men are tired. But if any cattle are stolen, I’ll be after you along with the McMahons.”
We shook on it.
The next day, I rode over to see Angus McMahon. Although some of the McMahon clan had gone to seek silver Angus was known for ignoring dreams, schemes and pots of gold. He supposedly kept his money in jars buried on various parts of his land.
I had the feeling of being watched and, as I came to a fork in the road, I heard the click of a trigger. I stopped and held up my hands.
The voice behind me was gruff and hard. “If you take the right fork, you’ll find the house of McMahon. If you take a left, you’ll come to the clear pool and lush green pasture…also owned by McMahon.”
A man, whose voice sounded older than he was, emerged from the bushes. His hair was flaming red, as were his eyes. It was disquieting to have a rifle pointed at me by a man who looked like he hadn’t slept for a couple days.
“Either way you go, you’re on McMahon property. State your business.”
“I