The Devil's Bonanza (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book Read online

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  The homesteaders out on the Kiowa Flats were in big trouble. Money was scarce and the local banker was foreclosing on their properties. Then the shifty brother-in-law of one of the sodbusters, comes up with a scheme to steal gold from a small mine in Colorado. The desperate folks on the Flats agree to pull the job. But robbers pay their dues and success leads to tragedy when a cold-blooded killer gets involved in the plot. The farmers who return home are greeted by an unexpected reception back on the Flats.

  THE DEVIL’S BONANZA

  By Patrick E. Andrews

  A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 7

  Copyright © 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

  First Smashword Edition: September 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  This book is dedicated to the Kennedys and the Terrals.

  Prologue

  The grasshoppers came a few weeks before the seasonal harvest.

  Their appearance from the north was nothing like the quintessential cloud of locusts one usually hears about; rather they flew low in a strung-out flock marked by the loud whirring of their short wings. The insects swept down into the crops and ate their way through them for some twenty-four hours. The desperate farm families went out into the fields using feed and flour sacks in a futile, exhausting effort to drive them off. Then, inexplicably, the grasshoppers disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. Some stragglers were left, and the people stomped them into the dirt in rage and frustration.

  The farmers were left with the disaster of a skimpy harvest. They were the type of people who lived in an environment where nothing could be taken for granted. Bad weather, floods, drought and other natural disasters could occur without warning. Sickness and injury were also a part of the bad luck that was part of their existence. The people looked on all misfortune as acts of God that were part of the Almighty’s great plan that would lead to the Resurrection when they would reap their eternal reward for their sufferings on earth.

  Most time this collective faith made their hard lives bearable, but the incident with the grasshoppers was beyond the limits of endurance. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

  Chapter One

  It was a spring day in 1884, and planting time was near for the farmers living on the Kiowa Flats south of Dodge City, Kansas. The weather was uncommonly warm for that time of year, promising a hot summer.

  On the farm of Ed and Elvira McKenna breakfast was about to be served. The lady of the house squinted against the glare of the rising sun through the kitchen window as she stirred a pot of grits. She was a thin woman; any chance of feminine plumpness had been worn away long ago by hard work, skimpy food and the grief of losing three babies soon after their births.

  Elvira performed the chore with angry movements of the wooden spoon, mumbling to herself as the food cooked. She had never cared for her brother-in-law Ben, and his sudden appearance late the night before had put her in a bad mood.

  Now Ben sat with her husband Ed and son Orvie—the only survivor of four birthings—as they waited for their breakfast. Elvira used her apron for protection as she grasped the pot’s hot handles and carried it to the table.

  “I sure do like grits,” Ben said. “I ain’t had none for a spell now.”

  Elvira, unsmiling, spooned the thick mixture into bowls and passed them out to the men. “Don’t they serve ’em up at the state prison?” she asked.

  Ben laughed as he accepted his portion. “Now, Elviry, what makes you think I come here from jail?”

  Ed, her husband and Ben’s brother, scowled. “That’s ain’t no way to talk, Elviry.”

  Twelve-year-old Orvie piped up unabashed. “You been in jail, Uncle Ben?”

  Ben grinned. “Well…maybe once.”

  “Ha!” Elvira exclaimed. She left the table and returned with a pan of hot biscuits.

  “I mighta been in twice,” Ben conceded good-naturedly.

  Elvira wiped her sweating brow and sat down. “That don’t count the times in local lockups, do it?”

  Ben burst out laughing. “It sure don’t.”

  Ed chuckled. “I reckon there ain’t been too many Sunday mornings that ain’t found Ben in jail with a busted-nose sheriff mad at him.”

  Orvie, unable to contain himself, looked wide-eyed at his uncle. “You busted a sheriff’s nose, Uncle Ben?”

  “I reckon as to how I have.”

  “Boy howdy!” Orvie exclaimed in admiration.

  “Ain’t that a fine thing!” Elvira said. “You’re setting a fine example for the boy, Ben. Next thing you know he’ll be wanting to follow your ways.”

  “Yeah!” Orvie said.

  Elvira glared at him. “You finish your breakfast and get to your chores.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ed finished his meal and stood up. “Speaking of chores, there’s them stumps to clear today if the south field is gonna be ready for plowing the next crop.”

  “I’m ready if you are,” Ben said.

  Orvie watched as his father and uncle headed toward the barn to get the mule ready for the day’s task. He turned his eyes to his mother. “Ma, is Uncle Ben gonna be staying with us for a long time this trip?”

  Elvira’s eyes went heavenward. “Oh, Lord, I pray not!”

  ~*~

  The Kiowa Flats—the “Flats” as the locals called it—had lain undisturbed for eons before the first sodbuster’s plow was driven through its fertile soil. Countless buffalo had traveled and grazed its lush grasses; Comanche and Kiowa Indians, among others, had camped its several creeks; and Texas cowherds had been driven north across the rolling terrain on their way to the railhead at Dodge City.

  By the late 1880s, the Flats had finally settled own. Indian braves had ceased counting coup in endless tribal warfare and cowboys no longer stopped there to fatten up cattle before making the final trek to the railroad. Now the land was plowed and fenced as much as the farmers’ collective hard work could manage in the three years they had occupied the locality.

  Along with the McKennas, there were four other farms located on the Flats. The Kearns, Dawkins, Turnbulls and Steuben families formed a close-knit community that was the epitome of cooperation. They helped each other on construction projects, planting, harvesting and emergencies. The farmers further demonstrated an unspoken pledge of unity by setting aside a small parcel of land on which to build their church and establish a cemetery. The graves occupying the site gave evidence of the harshness and sacrifice of pioneer life. The dead were mostly babies and elderly persons. The weakest had died first on the Flats.

  But there was still hope for a better future, and the survivors used the small church in order to join together to praise their God and beg for his merciful blessings. It was also where they gathered for periodic meetings to discuss the paths their lives were to follow.

  ~*~

  The shadows in the farmyard were long but there were still three hours of daylight l
eft when Ed and Ben McKenna finally returned to the house. Stump pulling in Kansas, while not as complicated as in other parts of the country, was still an engrossing job that strained muscles and willpower to the limit; especially when there was no dynamite handy to speed things along. The two brothers had labored through the long hours without a mid-day break.

  Now, dirty and soaked in perspiration, they pulled off their boots on the house’s rickety porch and went inside. Elvira gave them a mordant look. “It musta been a right enjoyable job, seeing as how y’all never came in for the dinner I fixed.”

  “It was one of them things you just cain’t quit in the middle of,” Ed explained.

  “Didn’t you even get thirsty?” she asked.

  “We wasn’t too far from the crick,” Ben interjected.

  Elvira sniffed the odor of male sweat that was filling her kitchen. “Whew! Y’all shoulda jumped in that crick.” She went to the cupboard and tossed them each a towel. “Get on out to the trough and pour a few buckets of water over yourselves. And try some of the soap out there too.”

  Orvie, who had been watching and listening, piped up. “I reckon as to how I’ll need a towel too, Ma. I been working hard myself today.”

  Elvira smiled and got another one for the boy. “Go on and clean up then.”

  The three went out to engage in a loud splashing session of washing that left them clean from the neck up and elbows down. They had taken off their shirts without removing their underwear that was now soaking wet, still dirty but cool. They pulled their shirts over the dripping undergarments and returned to the house for supper.

  Elvira McKenna knew how to feed hungry men. Born and raised on a Mississippi farm as the only daughter among five sons, she had begun her kitchen apprenticeship at an early age. Her father and brothers worked hard, and the family ate as well as any poor whites could expect in those hard-scrabble times. When the war with the hated Yankees came along, the three older boys volunteered to serve with a Mississippi volunteer infantry regiment. That meant Elvira had to assume some of the physical labor around the farm. It was a difficult situation for a young girl, but she gave it her best.

  Back in the house on the Flats, platters of fried chicken, gravy and corn bread were devoured during the meal until the men’s bellies were stuffed. Ed belched and patted his stomach straining against the restrictions of his belt. “I reckon that’ll hold me for awhile.”

  “Before y’all get settled too comfy,” Elvira reminded them, “there’s the meeting over to the church.”

  “We got time for another cup of coffee, ain’t we?” Ed asked.

  “What’s the meeting about?” Ben asked.

  “Well, we had us a grasshopper invasion just before last year’s harvest,” Ed explained. “It wasn’t much, but did enough damage to cost us some. We need to get an extension on our loans from the bank.”

  “I’d like to go along with you if it’s all right,” Ben said.

  “Sure. We got to hitch up the wagon.”

  “I’ll help you hitch her up,” Ben said. “But I’m riding over. I don’t care much for wagon seats.”

  Elvira smirked. “You mean it’s kinda hard to make a quick get-away in a wagon, don’t you?”

  Ben laughed. “You’re right about that, Elviry.”

  Orvie looked over eagerly at the houseguest. “Is a busted-nose sheriff looking for you, Uncle Ben?”

  Elvira snapped, “Hush your mouth and finish eating.” She turned her eyes to the two men. “And y’all hurry up with that coffee. I don’t want us missing out on petitioning for that loan extension.”

  “Just as you say,” Ed said. The two brothers slurped down their coffee and went out to hitch up Ed’s wagon and saddle Ben’s horse.

  They worked well together; their habitual cooperation forged on their father’s farm back in Mississippi. The property had bordered on the one owned by Elvira’s family. Their natural team spirit turned out to be a necessity when the older McKenna boys failed to return from the war. The three had been buried somewhere on the battlefield of Gettysburg, but the location of their graves had not been recorded.

  After the Confederate defeat, the poor Mississippi farmers found it almost impossible to make their land pay off because of reconstruction carpetbaggers. These were heartless opportunists from up north who came south to gnaw on the bones of the vanquished South. To make things even worse, the tattered aristocracy that had once been the leaders in the community were helpless to give any aid or support in the unhappy situation. Ed and Elvira were ever the optimists, figuring things would eventually get better. But after ten years the couple had to accept the inevitable.

  They had some serious discussions between themselves, determining that it seemed better to try their luck out on the frontier. Elvira, who hated to leave a place where three of her babies were buried, knew he was right, and she agreed to the move. The couple put their meager belongings on the farm wagon, and with their boy Orvie, joined other poor Southerners to head for what they hoped was a better life out west.

  After traveling through Texas and the Indian Nations, the family heard about free land being available in western Kansas south of Dodge City. They arrived in time to go to the government land office and sign up in a lottery to win a homestead. They drew a lucky number, winning a nice place with a creek running through it in an area called the Kiowa Flats. After meeting the requirement of erecting a permanent home on the plot, they turned to developing a producing farm.

  Ed’s younger brother Ben showed up unexpectedly from Mississippi on a late afternoon in the fall. He planned on helping Ed for awhile, then get a place of his own. But after a couple of months, he changed his mind, growing restless as the vast emptiness of the west made him want to see as much of it as he could. He made his goodbyes and rode away.

  He returned a year later, but once again caught a strong case of wanderlust. As time passed, Ed and Elvira heard rumors about Brother Ben following the owl hoot trail. More stories of Ben’s lawless escapades continued to the point that neither Ed nor Elvira could figure out exactly what he was up to. And by then they knew for sure that he was somehow getting mixed up in some wild and shady activities.

  Then, just a week before, he had made a sudden reappearance on the farm.

  ~*~

  Now, out in the barn, the McKenna brothers strapped and buckled the wagon harness onto the mule, then Ben saddled his own mount. Ed called out toward the house. “We won’t be back ’til late.”

  “Don’t come back with a snootfull,” Elvira shouted back.

  “We won’t promise nothing,” Ed yelled as they left the farmyard. Ben’s laughter echoed across the prairie country as they turned down the road.

  Chapter Two

  Doss Kearns, another farmers on the Kiowa Flats, sat on the wagon seat, and flipped the reins in agitation. Despite the urging, the horse’s reaction was to stubbornly shake its head and snort while maintaining a leisurely pace toward the church where the farmers were going to have a meeting. The session had been scheduled because of the financial problems that hung heavily over the Flats.

  “Godamn grasshoppers!” Doss cursed as he slapped the reins once more

  He was a large man, heavyset and powerful. His drooping moustache and curly black hair gave his countenance a Gypsy-like quality. His voice was deep and loud enough to travel far in the crystal clear air of the country where he lived and farmed. His physical appearance was so impressive that he had become the spokesman for the rangy, weathered farmers in the area. And, like most natural leaders who had simply evolved to their posts he enjoyed no special privileges while enduring all the responsibilities.

  Doss could see four other wagons and two horses as he pulled into the church yard. The house of worship was a frame building carefully and affectionately built by the farmers in a collective effort during those rare occasions when time was available. The pews inside were no more than backless wooden benches, but, there were plans to replace them with store-bought versio
ns when money was available.

  All eyes turned toward Doss as he came to a halt. He simply sat on his wagon seat to let the farmers know he expected them to approach him.

  “Howdy, Doss,” Ed McKenna greeted.

  Doss acknowledged the salutation with a solemn nod of his head and waited until the other men gathered close to him. They were a contrasting lot.

  J.R. Dawkins was a thin, stoop-shouldered man with a shifty expression. He and his wife Mary Beth had wandered down into Kansas after failing to make it in Nebraska. Although he was as well liked and trusted as any of the others, he had a disagreeable habit of never looking another man straight in the eyes.

  The youngest of the group was Zachary Steuban. He still sported a freshly-scrubbed look with thick blond hair crowning his smooth-shaved face. He had brought a teenage bride from Missouri to the Flats with him, and the couple was expecting their first child.

  Buford Turnbull hailed from Kentucky. He wore a permanent scowl that was accentuated by heavy eyebrows and a thick unruly beard. He was the local preacher when not farming, and performed both those callings with a passion. Self-tutored in the Bible and fond of thumping it, he had more than once jumped down from the pulpit and roughly shook a sleeping churchgoer in righteous anger. Then he would return to his place to carry on his service as if nothing had happened.

  “I reckon it’s too hot in the church,” Doss Kearns told the others. “We’ll palaver out here.”

  “Good idee, Doss,” J.R. Dawkins acknowledged.

  Ed McKenna pointed to his brother. “You remember Ben, don’t you, Doss? He’s staying with us for awhile.”

  Doss offered his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Ben said.

  Doss pulled a pipe from his pocket and stuffed it with tobacco. “I went into Dodge today,” he said, searching his pockets. “I paid a call on Banker Treadwell.” He found a match and struck it on the seat beside him. “We had a long talk.” He lit the pipe and took a couple of puffs. “I told him we had a bad year on account of them pesky grasshoppers. He said he knowed it. I told him we wanted extensions on our loans along with new ones to keep going. He said he was sorry but he had to call ’em in and there couldn’t be no more loans ’til the first’uns was paid in full.”