The Texas Job

Also by Reavis Z. Wortham

The Texas Red River Mysteries

The Rock Hole

Burrows

The Right Side of Wrong

Vengeance Is Mine

Dark Places

Unraveled

Gold Dust

Laying Bones

The Sonny Hawke Mysteries

Hawke’s Prey

Hawke’s War

Hawke’s Target

Hawke’s Fury

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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2022 by Reavis Z. Wortham

Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by The BookDesigners

Cover images © Everett Collection/Shutterstock, xradiophotog/Shutterstock

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

sourcebooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Wortham, Reavis Z., author.

Title: The Texas job / Reavis Z. Wortham.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2022]

Identifiers: LCCN 2021023656 (print) | LCCN 2021023657 (ebook) | (trade paperback) | (epub)

Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3623.O777 T49 2022 (print) | LCC PS3623.O777 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023656

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023657

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Author’s Note

About the Author

Back Cover

This one is for my longtime friend, Captain/Division-Director, Union Pacific Railroad Police, Landon McDowell (Ret.). Thanks for being there through thick and thin.

We sleep safely in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.

—George Orwell

Chapter One

The buckskin’s hooves landed with soft thuds on the sandy East Texas road. The early autumn air was unusually dry and cool as scissortails dodged and darted over a wide pasture on my left. A mix of hardwoods rose green and thick off to the right, watered by an unseen creek. Filled with the tracks of other horses, wagon wheels, and narrow tires from gasoline-powered cars, the dirt road had obviously seen a lot of business both going and coming in the booming East Texas oil fields.

I’d recently stepped off a train in the small town of Troup and was a stranger to one of the oldest sections of the Lone Star State. A gentle breeze that day in 1931 cooled my face under the wide black brim of one of Mr. John B. Stetson’s best full beaver hats. The air was fresh and clean with the scent of pine trees intermixed with the hardwoods and damp earth.

Against the clear blue sky, black wings rode the thermals off to the right. Something was dead over near the heavily wooded creek bottom. The unusual number of buzzards indicated it was large. As was my new habit when thinking, I unconsciously smoothed a recently cultivated mustache that had come in thick and brown.

Likely a cow that drifted away from someone’s farm, or maybe a deer.

It was a good day to be out in the old way, swaying along in a saddle. I figured it wouldn’t be much longer before traveling horseback would be a thing of the past. Wagons were already fading away as folks replaced their mule teams with cars and pickup trucks. Tractors were showing up in the fields as farmers realized they could cover a lot more ground with a gas-powered engine than walking behind a team.

My relaxed mood vanished when a young, black-haired boy wearing nothing but a pair of faded Sears, Roebuck bib overalls and carrying a short, single-shot .22 rushed out from behind a thick cluster of cedars and stopped in surprise. He almost scared the pee-waddlin’ out of me popping up so fast out of nowhere.

I reached for the holstered pistol under my coat, but the rent horse shied, and it took me a second to get the gelding back under control. Lucky for me the boy wasn’t a real danger, but I cursed myself for not paying attention. The boy waved his arm back toward where he’d come from.

Whoa, son! The horse threw his head up and down in fear. Settle down and stand still before this damned knothead twists out from under me. I noted his battered rifle with an octagonal barrel was the same as a little single-shot .22 dad bought me when I was about the kid’s same age.

Instead of listening to me, he shouted, gesturing again with his free hand back toward the circling scavengers. Three squirrels tied by their necks swung on a rope around his waist.

I checked the brush beside the road. Thick cedars grew close along with blackberry vines that could conceal armed men intent on robbing me. A quick look behind satisfied me that it was only the two of us, and I had time to study the barefoot youngster blocking the road.

He looked downright terrified. Sweat-soaked and hatless, the kid was plumb out of breath. He stuttered, trying to talk in a flood of expressions, and I couldn’t understand a word he said.

Good Lord, he ain’t much more’n ten or eleven.

Sorry, son. I don’t savvy what you’re saying. Sounds like you’re talking Indian. I wondered if the kid was a half-breed. There were a lot of Choctaw and Cherokees still living in East Texas, along with Coushattas, Alabamas, and Caddoes, and they weren’t timid about marrying one another. You speak English? Tu hablas Español?

He wiped sweat away from his forehead with a palm and collected himself. Gathering his thoughts, he grabbed for breath. Yyyes. He paused and added, Sssir. I know English, and can write my name, too.

All right now. Now, make sure that rifle’s pointed at the sky and simmer down. Tell me what’s got you so het up you almost got me throwed.

The youngster gathered himself. I I ff…

You’re doing better. Take a deep breath to settle your nerves and swaller. He did. All right, now try again.

I…I found a body back there. Somebody’s dead.

I studied the barefoot boy, who looked like hundreds of other shirtless kids trying to survive cotton and scratch farms in the fall of 1931. Hair cut short on the sides and longer on top, it wasn’t hard to believe someone just put a bowl on his head and cut off everything else they could see.

I figured a parent did it. Barbers cost money, and it was a good way to save money in a depression.

I didn’t feel that prickling on the back of my neck when there was danger around I’d learned to listen to long ago, so I settled back into the saddle and patted the gelding on the neck. You sure about that? Maybe it’s a cow, or something else like a panther kill.

Nossir, Mr. Man. It’s one of my people. A woman.

My people. I couldn’t help it, and checked my back trail, still not convinced we were alone. That kind of caution kept me alive down on the Mexican border. With the recent East Texas oil boom, thousands of men flocked to the Pine Top area in search of work or money. There were always a few who lived off others, stealing, robbing, or murdering for what little money a man might have in his pockets.

I finally relaxed when the gelding blew a couple of times and settled down under me. Giving the kid another minute to calm down, I studied the road cutting through the patchwork of woods, pastures, and fields. The busy oil town of Pine Top wasn’t far, but still out of sight in the distance, as were the massive oil derricks I’d heard about, ones that strained upward like skeleton trees stripped of their limbs.

I wasn’t there to see the derricks, though. I’d already seen the oil fields that swallowed Teague and sprouted so many rigs around the town of Gladewater tha the buildings were literally shaded in the evenings by the tall steel frames.

I softened my tone. What’s your name, son?

As if the question had no relevance, the youngster blinked at me in silence.

Finally, the kid licked dry lips and took a deep breath. Booker Johnston.

Fine then, Booker Johnston. You got some Indian in you?

Yessir. Some. Half.

Choctaw?

The kid was surprised. Cherokee.

"Figured with them high cheekbones. Got some Choctaw in me. Who do you get most of your light complexion from?"

My daddy. My granny’s where the Indian comes from.

How far back yonder’d you find this body you’re talking about?

The kid swallowed and bit his bottom lip. About a mile. You go over there a little ways down that path, and you’ll cut a trace that leads to the creek.

That where the body is?

Yessir.

We’re still about two miles from Pine Top, right?

Yessir. Booker pointed down the road with the rifle. Two miles as the crow flies.

That means around four or five on the road.

Yessir.

You live there?

Yessir.

I flicked a finger toward the squirrels hanging limp and fresh enough they hadn’t stiffened up. Guess you walked out here to hunt squirrels.

Yessir. I’m the best shot in the family. I’d rather have rabbit, but Daddy won’t let me shoot none ’til we get our first freeze.

Your mama taught you good manners. Well, my name’s Tom Bell. I reckon you better climb up here with me so we can go take a look at what you found. Hand me up that single-shot. Is it loaded?

Yessir.

Then hand it up careful.

Booker passed the rifle up, and when I offered my hand, he grabbed and jumped at the same time I yanked. It wasn’t the first time the youngster had mounted a horse in such a way, and he swung up behind me, smooth as oil.

I reined the horse down a game trail winding through the trees that closed in overhead, making it feel like a cool, shady tunnel. Their colored leaves covered the ground below. With the rifle resting across the seat rise in front of me, we fell silent as the horse’s steady pace ate up the yards, and more leaves drifted down around us.

The boy settled in and steadied himself by holding my dress coat. His right forearm bumped the holstered revolver on my hip, and I reached back and adjusted Booker’s hold without a word. He didn’t react to the pistol, and I didn’t expect him to. Guns weren’t unusual in the country. They were as much of a tool as a hammer, saw, or those cast-iron monkey wrenches everyone carried to work on their T-model cars. Some men carried them for business left unfinished, and others for new business. I carried mine as part of the job.

Folks think the woods are quiet, but they’re a symphony of natural sounds. Wind sighs through the trees. Limbs creak and rub against each other. Birds call and flutter through the branches. Insects buzz, water gurgles, and unseen animals rustle through the understory. I’d long ago learned to pay attention to the sounds around me, unconsciously filing them away when everything seemed normal. But when those sounds suddenly ceased on that downward slope, I reined in to figure out what was wrong.

The boy leaned around me. What?

Shhh. Listen.

Not a bird called, and even the insects quieted. I tensed, trying to locate whatever it was that caused the silence. Movement catches the eye, and I slowly scanned the trees. I recalled an old woman down in the Valley once told me that when the world goes quiet, it’s because the ol’ Devil is close by.

I wasn’t scared of the Devil himself. The things he made people do was what worried me. I rested my hand on the butt of the pistol and waited.

The boy shivered. As someone who spent a lot of time on his own in the woods, he felt it, too. I felt him turning to look behind us. Good for him.

Something was out there. Maybe a lion, or a bear. Cougars sneaking up on unsuspecting people in the woods was still pretty common. Both still lived in deep East Texas and down in the Thicket, and every now and then you’d hear of someone running into an irritable old black bear.

Here and now, though, it was most likely it was someone staying out of sight and sneaking around so I couldn’t see him. The hair rose on my neck, thinking a rifle could be trained on us.

The horse shifted and stood hip-shot. He casually flicked an ear. If he’d sensed any danger, those soft ears would have pricked forward, giving me an indication of what might be coming, and from where.

He was completely unconcerned, and I relaxed. A late-season grasshopper buzzed across in front of us, wings rattling like dry paper. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammered at a tree, and a blue jay screeched.

The Devil had passed on by.

My heels urged the gelding forward, and the world woke back up. The trail led down a swale, then intersected an old two-track that likely began as an ancient foot trail before being cut deep by wagon wheels.

Tread marks in the dirt caught my attention. Out of habit, I reined up to study two sets of distinctive, narrow rubber tire tracks made when the ground was damp several days earlier. One set was slightly wider and overlapped the other.

This where you’re talking about?

The boy leaned around him and again pointed upward. It’s the road that runs close to the creek. Now you can follow them.

When did it rain last?

About a week ago. Rained purdy hard.

Umm humm. Taking in the countryside, I heeled the gelding forward. We rode across the two thin lanes and back onto the beaten path. The ground sloped downward, and soon we caught the sound of water chuckling over a tangle of drifts that backed the stream into a shallow pond before spilling over a fallen log. The horse’s ears pricked forward, and he snorted again, thirsty.

Here the path narrowed, becoming nothing but a game trail widened by hundreds, if not thousands of footprints through the years. The boy tensed behind me, and I realized we were getting close to the body.

I didn’t intend to make the kid look at the remains again, and hated that he’d seen them in the first place. The first human corpse I’d ever seen as a result of violence was when I was nearly eighteen, and I figured that was a mite too soon for anybody.

Minutes later, we caught the distinctive odor of a rotting corpse. Whether it be human or animal, it’s a smell that stays with a person long after they smell it for the first time. It brought back the memory of the first time I’d encountered it in an overgrown fencerow on a sunbaked gravel road in Center Springs, Texas, back when I was five, not long before Dad moved us down to the Valley.

I kept that memory, not because I found a dead coon rotting in the weeds on that sweaty summer afternoon, but because my dog rolled in it and Dad made him stay away from the house for more than two weeks until the stench faded away. It came back every time it rained, aggravating Dad to no end.

Our trail paralleled the muddy little creek, and fifty yards later I reined up. From high on the horse’s back, it was easy to see how the boy had stumbled upon the corpse lying beside a downed tree trunk. With the wind behind him, and being on the ground, he wouldn’t have been able to see the body until he was almost upon it.

Buzzards rested on the bare limbs sticking out from the split trunk, with their wings spread to catch the warm sun. They launched themselves into the air, followed by those who’d been feeding. One reluctant scavenger pounded the air and soared across the creek only a few feet above its surface. Booker slid to the ground, and I handed him the little rifle.

Swinging down, I passed the reins to the boy. Hold him for a minute. Breathing through my mouth, I walked to the body and stopped by the corpse’s feet.

Good goddlemighty.

It’s a woman. My quiet comment was more to myself than to the boy holding the horse. It’s the way I work out a problem sometimes, talking to myself, or thinking about it so loudly in my head, it’s a wonder people can’t hear through my ear holes. Poor thing.

She’d been laying out there for several days. The bloated corpse was dressed in a long skirt that would have reached to her calves had she been standing. Tangled, windblown hair covered most of her face. A large exit wound had taken most of her nose and upper teeth, telling me the gunshot came from behind. She would have been unrecognizable to her closest family members. A patchwork quilt half underneath her body was fouled with blood, fluids, and rotting tissue.

She wore bright red shoes.

She has…had…a little money.

I straddled the tree trunk after checking for snakes and circled the body, scanning the ground. Finding nothing else, I returned to the boy holding the horse. Well, you were right.

I done tol’ you. Booker was staring off across the creek, his back to the body not far away. I know what dead people look like.

Just needed to see, so I can tell the sheriff when we get to town. I’ll take you home. Said you live in Pine Top, right?

Yessir, on the far side and out of town a piece.

And you came all this way on foot.

Hitched a ride most of the way. Papa lets me hunt when I finish my chores on Saturday. Cotton won’t be ready for a couple more weeks.

He was startled into silence when a covey of bobwhites exploded into the air. I turned toward the scattering quail and squinted. Something was out there.

The crack of a gunshot and a buzzing bullet shocked the still morning air. My Colt revolver was in my hand before I knew it. Another round whined off the log and into the woods behind us, telling me it wasn’t a hunter, unless they were hunting me.

I threw two shots in the shooter’s direction and waved back at the boy. Get down, but hang on to them reins!

Two more shots from the concealed shooter rolled together in a rumble of gunpowder-fueled thunder. The best cover was behind the log, opposite the woman’s body. I dropped behind the silvery trunk and was immediately wrapped in the sickish-sweet odor of corrupted flesh.

Four rounds left in the Colt. Though I was practiced in fast reloads, I didn’t want to be caught with an empty weapon if there was more than one shooter. I returned fire twice more and reached my free hand back toward Booker, who was flat on his belly and using the stream bank for cover.

Stay down and slide your rifle over to me!

He’d wrapped the reins around a tough sapling to restrain the anxious horse. Holding on with one hand, he pushed his little .22 toward me through the grass.

Staying low, I folded in half to reach the rifle. You have more hulls for this?

Yessir. In here. From the front pocket of his overalls, Booker withdrew a wheat-colored Bull Durham Tobacco bag half full of .22 shells. Staying low, he sidearmed the ammunition, which bounced off my leg like a beanbag.

The hidden assailant’s gun spoke again. The bullet struck the trunk only inches away and whined off into the woods. Rolling onto my side, I reloaded the revolver and jammed it back into the holster. Because there was so much cover between me and the shooter, I didn’t trust my aim with the pistol. But a rifle was a different story, especially since I had learned to shoot with a .22 just like the one in my hands. I pulled the bag’s drawstring loose, shook out three fresh rounds, and stuck them between my lips. I dropped the bag onto the ground.

The stub of a short branch was just long enough for me to hang the Stetson in view to offer a half-hidden target. Staying low, I crawled to the broken end of the log at the same time the shooter put a round through the branch, flipping the hat onto the ground.

Thankful he wasn’t a great shot, I slowly pushed past the splintered end of the log and tucked the short rifle against my shoulder. Hoping its sight was accurate—and I figured it was since Booker took three squirrels with it that morning—I aimed through a tangle of dewberry vines and waited.

A minute passed, though it seemed like an eternity. A jay called in the woods, the harsh cry lonesome and loud.

Holding still and looking down the rifle’s iron sights, I searched the understory bushes and waited. Finally, a flicker of movement told me where the rifleman was hiding. The man moved from behind a tree and studied the scene from his new vantage point. I hoped the guy thought he’d put a round through my hat and skull.

The would-be assassin leaned farther around a pine, aiming his rifle at where my hat had disappeared. He moved a little more into view and put one foot out to the side, providing a big belly that gave me more than enough target area. But something told the man to look left, and he saw enough there to make him jump back, half a second after I pulled the trigger.

The crack of the little .22 rifle was followed by a grunt. I broke the rifle down, pulled out the empty hull, and thumbed in one of the rounds from between my lips. Snapping it back, I lined up on that same tree and fired again, knocking off a chunk of bark. Loading again, I waited as a squirrel scolded us from high above.

It wasn’t long before the shooter shoved off, running hard at an angle to my log. Nothing more than a flicker of blue movement between the trees, he offered little in the way of a target before he vanished into the woods. Frustrated, I finally rose to one knee.

Stay there, Booker.

Ain’t got no place else to go.

Admiring the boy’s grit, I left the cover and crept though the underbrush until I reached the shooter’s vantage point. Expended brass was scattered around the tree, along with boot prints and a small drop of blood. Waiting, I kept an eye out as the unseen blue jay complained from somewhere back in the woods, signaling that the danger of more gunfire was likely over.

I picked up the empty hulls and went back. Booker rose.

You hurt?

Nossir. He was shooting at you, not me.

Well, had he hit me, you’d-a been next. Let’s get on out of here. Taking the reins, I swung back into the saddle and helped the boy mount.

We rode back upstream until the corpse was far behind and the air cleared. I finally relaxed and reined the horse to the edge of the creek. The gelding smelled the surface, snorted, and drank. Booker dropped to the ground, walked a few feet upstream, and dropped to his stomach to reach the water for himself. Finished, he stood, wiping his mouth. Mister, are you a lawman?

Heart still pounding, I didn’t want the kid to know I’d been scared back there. I tilted the black hat back on my forehead to show I was relaxed, though inside I was wound tighter than a mainspring. Why do you ask that?

The way you fought back, and that pistol on your hip. Booker squinted upward. You know how to use it. Most folks around here don’t carry them low like you do. Them that do, just stick them in a pocket or under their belt.

You’re a right smart little feller. I lifted my lapel to reveal a badge. I’m a Texas Ranger. Came up here after a murderer named Clete Ferras. Ever hear of him? I unfolded a wanted poster and handed it down to him.

Booker shook his head. Not so’s I remember. You think that was him back there?

Could be, but I doubt it. He wouldn’t know I’d be there. That was someone keeping an eye on the body, or something else. You know the sheriff around here?

I know Sheriff Dobbs in Pine Top. You want me to take you to him?

I’d be obliged. We’ll both need to tell him what happened.

I’ll take you, but don’t expect much out of him.

I felt the corner of my eyes wrinkle into crow’s-feet. How old are you, son?

’lebem.

I ’magine you’ll do well in life.

Chapter Two

Quinn Walker stepped outside onto the large covered porch of his four-square, two-story Craftsman, shipped as a kit from Sears, Roebuck and Company on a flatbed railroad car and assembled by experienced carpenters on-site. He smoothed his oiled hair back with a palm and plucked a gold watch from the pocket on his vest. Snapping it open, Walker bounced on his toes for a second, replaced the timepiece, and adjusted his suit coat.

He glanced up and down the brick street. Model T Fords and more than a few of the newer Model A’s chugged past, dodging wagons, saddle horses, and pedestrians. Two blocks over, Pine Top’s main street was even busier and working alive with cars. Not ten years earlier, his town had been nothing but a cluster of wooden buildings lining a wide dirt street huddled in the middle of the piney woods.

Now it had brick buildings, brick or oiled roads, and an overhead tangle of telephone poles and electric power lines, though Main Street was still hard-packed dirt in the summer and a mire when it rained. The city planned to start bricking Main on January 1, but most of the locals wondered why it hadn’t already been done.

The truth was that Quinn Walker and his associates slipped enough cash under the table to brick their own residential streets first, with the promise of more to come for other projects if the city council would continue to cooperate.

He thought of it as his town, and he planned to own a lot of it in the years to come.

The familiar odor of frying chicken wafted through the open windows behind him, reminding Walker of how much he loved having an on-premises housekeeper. That’s how civilized people lived, with someone to keep the house and yard. The lot was extra-wide because he’d purchased four of them at the same time and plopped the house right in the middle.

His grin widened. Mine. The house, grounds, and swelling bank account were his, or would be someday soon. Glancing back, he saw his plump wife settling into a rocker beside the window. Mallie enjoyed sewing or reading there in the breeze where the light was good and she could see the tall oil derricks rising over the town only two blocks away, pumping oil from the ground at an astonishing rate.

Walker was originally from nearby Hog Eye, where dozens of wells were changing the landscape of East Texas. He had missed the initial opportunity to get in on the ground level of Pine Top’s oil business. Until he married Mallie Whitehorse, he didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but her family had the incredibly good fortune to own fifty acres out west of Pine Top that they worked and sweated over for decades to make a few hundred dollars each growing season from cotton or corn. When