Curses, A Mobley Meadows Novel

By Gerald Lane Summers

After saving Texas from the oppressive regime of Governor Edmund Jackson Davis and overseeing the inauguration of Governor Richard Coke, United States Circuit Court Judge Mobley Meadows sets out on a full tour of his court circuit.

Accompanied by his two deputy marshals, Edson Rabb and Jack Anthony Lopes, he heads for Cimarron, New Mexico to settle a major land grant dispute. Along the way, they are attacked by remnants of the Kinch West gang, Comanche Indians, notorious highwaymen, cannibals, and outlaws hired by an English Land Company to drive settlers out of the Cimarron area. While engaged in these activities, he discovers that his fiancé, Lydia Sweetgrass, has been kidnapped by Quanah Parker, Chief of the Quahadie Comanche band, and must devise a way to find and save her from torture and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerald Lane Summers
• Release date: May 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781937698270

Gerald Lane Summers

Gerald Lane Summers is a retired lawyer, writer, and teacher with over thirty years service within the justice system of California. His work as a police officer, probation officer, juvenile court referee, historian and writing instructor have uniquely qualified him to write about the old west, police work and the justice system in general. "The ACCIDENTAL COP" is his third novel. His fourth, "Charming Billy," released in April, 2015, is an historical romance about Billy Brand, VC who fought as a Spitfire pilot during the Battle of Britain and suffers from PTSD. He returns to Britain to face his demons and reestablish his relationship with Countess Moira Sinclair-Lewis.Both of Mr. Summers' first two books, historically based western action adventures, have received high ratings by reviewers averaging 4.4 to 4.7 stars.They are: "Mobley's Law," and "Curses," both Mobley Meadows novels. The third and final book in this triolgy will be available in 2014.The ACCIDENTAL COP, now in second edition, was originally released in February, 2014. It is based broadly on Mr. Summers early police career. He holds the record for wrecked patrol cars in one year at the El Cajon Police Dept. His work as a probation officer and subsequent studies of law and psychology provided him with the expertise to write about the current rash of clerical molestation cases.A short synopsis of The Accidental Cop follows:San Diego Detective Sergeant Ben Colder, known as "Choo choo," for running his patrol car into a parked train and wrecking three others in one year, is assigned to investigate the twelve year old murder of a child found in the roots of a tree at the San Diego Mission de Alcala. When his team discovers the murder was the first of many across the nation by a serial killer associated with the Catholic Church, they find themselves being stalked by special operations teams determined to protect the church from scandal.Mr. Summers can be reached at: [e-mail]

Book preview

"Don’t Go, Mobley — please! Don’t you see how crazy this is? There is nothing you can do out there on the prairie or in Cimarron you cannot do from a courtroom here or in Austin."

Mobley looked up to the sky, frustrated; his hands first on his hips and then around Lydia’s shoulders as he pulled her close. They had argued about this all night and Lydia simply would not give up. She could not understand why Mobley was compelled to travel his judicial circuit rather than making the litigants come to him, as all other federal circuit court judges did; in nice, safe courtrooms. He did not answer her. All that needed to be said, had been said.

They stood on the boardwalk in front of the Old Town Pharmacy in Waco. Mobley was wearing his woolen traveling clothes, riding boots, and his newly cleaned leather jacket. Lydia wore her working clothes, an ankle length blue cotton dress and short sleeved linen blouse collared to the neck, all covered with her pharmacy smock. Lydia’s six year old daughter, Gertrude, clung to Mobley’s leg as Lydia held him by the waist, refusing to let go. Mobley ran his hand through Gertrude’s hair, mussing it up even while whispering in Lydia’s ear, making sure she knew he loved her beyond measure.

Mobley Meadows and his marshals, Jack Anthony Lopes and Edson Rabb, were about to embark on their first full tour of Mobley’s federal judicial circuit. He did not want to leave Lydia, and she had certainly made clear she did not want him to go. They had defied moral tradition by living together above Lydia’s pharmacy without the benefit of matrimony, and no one dared comment about it, at least within their hearing. Mobley Meadows was a great hero in Texas and Waco, but was also known to have a temper best left untested. Few, besides Edson Rabb, the most empathetic man Mobley had ever known, understood how strongly he felt about Lydia Sweetgrass. She had him fully wrapped around her little finger and knew it; but she could not get him to change his ways when it came to being a judge. He intended to be where the people were, so he could understand their problems first hand. To him, it was the very essence of being a judge.

I’m going to miss you terribly, Lydia said as she finally gave up her plea. She stood on the toes of her high button shoes, looking up at him. If you don’t come back to me safe and sound, I’ll hunt you down and run you up a tree.

Mobley laughed. "Lydia Sweetgrass, I’ve been travelin’ circuit for a long time, both in Tennessee and here in Texas. I’ve never run into anything I couldn’t handle, from murderous skunks to grizzle bears, and that was when I was alone. Now, I’ve got Edson Rabb and Jack Anthony Lopes with me, and they are the two toughest lawmen I’ve ever known. So, please don’t worry. Just stay here in Waco, run your pharmacy and take care of Gertrude. I’ll be back soon enough. Then, we can get married and legally do all the things we’ve been doing illegally."

Yes, and do you think the town mothers will forgive me once we do that? I doubt it.

Well, they will, or we’ll move off to Austin sooner than we’d planned and they’ll have no pharmacist. You just tell me if anyone smarts off at you, and I’ll make sure they regret it when I get back. I don’t like doing it, but getting even can be sweet.

Lydia looked up at Mobley, who stood six foot six. She could barely reach his lips even by standing on her toes, so he picked her up and gave her a kiss; soft at first, and then prolonged.

Edson and Jack waited by their horses and turned their backs to allow the two lovers a bit more privacy, although there was not much of it to be found on the early morning street. A couple of oldish ladies in their heavily bustled, colorless dresses were clucking to themselves as they slowly approached, sauntering now on the boardwalk. Lydia ignored them as she enjoyed the deep kiss, and broke it only when Mobley had to come up for air. She glanced at the two women and gave them her best, Mona Lisa, smile. They stopped and pretended to look in the pharmacy window.

Now, you remember to send me a telegram whenever you get to a town, so I can follow you. You’re going first to Fort Worth and then Cimarron, New Mexico, right?

"Well, that’s the plan as of today. It’s possible we may skip Fort Worth and head right to Cimarron. There’s serious trouble brewing there. The Department of the Interior created it by unilaterally deciding the Maxwell Land Grant, over two million acres of land in the upper corner of New Mexico, is invalid; and has now opened it up for homesteading. There’s a lawsuit on the issue pending, but they decided not to wait. It suggests someone in the Department is on the take. I swear, that bunch at Interior is crooked as a sidewinder’s trail, and always has been.

So, it’s a question of triage; what should I do first based on its importance? I’m leaning toward Cimarron, but since it is not much out of the way, we’ll probably stop in Fort Worth to see what’s up. There have been rumors Kinch West and what’s left of his terrorist gang have been seen out there, but I have my doubts. They have a telegraph in both Fort Worth and in Cimarron now, so I’ll keep in touch as we go. Do not worry yourself."

Lydia sniffed and tears began to flow down her cheeks, ruining the powder that covered the light freckles on her cheeks. She held onto Mobley a bit harder and buried her head in his chest. He stroked her auburn hair, careful not to disturb the way she had rolled it on her forehead in front, and wondered how she kept it all so soft and shiny. Lord, did he love this woman!

Lydia finally pulled away and looked up at Mobley. She willed away her tears and blew her nose into a small lace kerchief. "What would Kinch West be doing in Fort Worth? Sniff. I thought he’d been seen running down south by the border? Isn’t that what you heard last year?"

Mobley pulled her back close. "Yes, it was; but he’s a squirmy sort and hung out around Waco and Fort Worth for quite some time. There must be an attraction for him in these parts. Maybe a girlfriend or family. Anyway, they’re just rumors and probably mean nothing. The bigger problem is in Cimarron.

The whole thing fell apart when the Interior Department stuck its nose into the situation and decided the grant was illegal from the start. They filed the original case in Colorado territory, but it was transferred to Austin and Judge Hooks ignored it for years; — the sumbitch."

Lydia pushed back. Mobley Meadows, you watch your tongue. I can’t have my husband thought of as a foul mouthed lout. I don’t care how bad Judge Hooks was, or what he did or didn’t do. I expect you to behave like the man I fell in love with.

Mobley lowered his head. "Sorry."

"Is that all you can say? You’re sorry?"

"Well, FOOT. It’s a curse with me, I guess."

Of course it’s a curse, what else would it be?

Mobley laughed, leaned down and snuggled his nose in Lydia’s hair. I suppose it was; but it’s not the kind of curse I was gettin’ at. Now, I’m thinkin’ I’d best be movin’ on before you start reachin’ for that pistol I gave you.

Lydia pulled her kerchief from her purse again, felt the smooth handle of the little .32 caliber revolver lying at the bottom of her knit bag, wiped her nose and nodded. "And don’t you forget it."

As Lydia watched Mobley ride off with Jack and Edson, she could take it no more. She plopped down on the boardwalk, her shoes in the mud of the street, and began to sob. Gertrude tried to comfort her, but ended up crying herself.

The two old ladies finally continued on their way and passed them by. One, obviously thinking herself a superior being, whispered just loud enough for Lydia to hear: Hussy; you should be horse-whipped for a whore.

Lydia, suddenly furious, reached for a glob of mud from the street and threw it at the women, full force. It covered them both, and shocked at the sudden assault, they stopped. You two old shrews had better not cross my path again, Lydia barked. You will regret it, I promise you.

Gertrude, her little face a mask of anger, joined in. "Yes, and the next time you come in here for a Doctor Pepper, it’s going to taste funny."

Chapter 1

Mobley listened intently as Edson Rabb described the tracks he had come across. Ten men were headed south from here about an hour ago. My guess is they’re outlaws, or remnants of the nasty bunch that attacked the train last year. If their horses were not in such poor condition, I’d guess they might be wranglers lookin’ for stray horses, but that’s clearly not the case. Look here.

Edson pointed to one set of tracks amid the short prairie grass and white wild flowers. Even Mobley could see the right rear horseshoe had slipped on the animal as it pushed off from the grass, and since the flowers were already starting to stand back up, he knew Edson’s guess on time was close.

And look at this one, Edson continued. He’s so skinny he’s hardly leaving a track at all.

Edson looked around, scanning the horizon while shading his eyes from the late morning sun. I don’t know about you two, but I think it best we turn off and hurry on into Fort Worth. They could be riding in a circular search pattern. It’s what I would do if I were looking for prey out here and trying to cut a trail. Fort Worth is not far off, and they might catch us in an ambush if we’re not careful. If we change direction and pick up speed, they may not be able to find or catch us. Their horses are just not up to a chase.

Mobley had accepted the risk of being harassed as he rode his circuit, for it had happened the year before, and on that occasion he’d survived only with the assistance of Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes when fifteen renegade Comancheros tried to run him down. Now, with both Edson and Jack, he felt more secure. Nevertheless, he had not expected to be attacked in force by ten murderous bandits no more than fifty miles from Waco.

There is one thing I learned from that experience last year. If you’re outnumbered and can’t outrun your enemy, the best thing to do is to put yourself in a position where you can shoot at them from cover. I had a great position on those Comancheros in my little canyon along the Brazos River, and it made all the difference in their first attack. After they tried to flank me, things would have been dicey if Jack had not intervened.

Come on, then, Jack said. Let’s get moving. These rascals may be poorly mounted, but they’re probably armed to the teeth and if they succeed in jumping us at close range, it won’t make any difference if their horses are dead or alive. Not only that, but I don’t see much cover out here other than these shallow hills. We’ll need more than that to protect us from ten men.

As one, they kicked their horses up to best speed, a speed determined by how fast the mule could travel fully loaded. They kept their heads on a swivel. Mobley noticed a covey of quail flush less than a hundred yards directly to their front, quickly followed by the appearance of ten riders. Mobley yelled out the sighting. "Damn, boys — here they come."

He let the mule go, watched Jack make a hard left turn and Edson do the same to the right. It was an all out scatter. They were too close to do anything else to avoid a head-on battle, ten against three. Pistol bullets were now flying at him from close range, and even the worst of marksmen might land a lucky shot if he did not get moving. Mobley kicked Meteor and started whacking her with his quirt. She froze.

"Damn you, Meteor. Get moving!" A bullet hit the Appaloosa in the middle of her left ear, making a neat hole and tearing a piece out of Mobley’s fringed jacket as it passed by. Meteor was finally galvanized into action. She started to buck.

Mobley found himself flying through the air, still holding on to the reins, but only until he hit the ground. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and he gasped for breath even as he pulled his pistol and shot one man no more than ten yards away.

The other raiders had scattered. Without direct leadership, they’d split and started after Edson and Jack. There was something about running prey that attracted such men, an animal instinct. Whatever it was, it gave Mobley the few seconds he needed to recover, get up and take aim at two more men galloping right at him. They were close, arms extended and pointing their long barreled cap and ball pistols at him. He jumped to one side to avoid Meteor as she continued to buck, and threw himself on the ground directly in front of the charging horses.

Something his grandfather had told him years before had popped into his mind. A running horse will not stomp on a man, for to its mind, he is just another obstacle to avoid. The horse will spook to one side, pull up, or jump over the man. Horses do not see well directly to their front and tend to panic if they think something might cause them to trip.

One horse pulled up, scattering a cloud of black sod and white flowers, reared and tumbled backwards. The rider, pulling on the reins to keep from falling off, inadvertently pulled the horse completely over and was crushed by the saddle horn as the horse landed on him. The other horse jumped over Mobley, and before the man could turn his animal around, Mobley shot him through the spine.

Mobley swiveled his head left and right to check on his friends, saw Jack in the most trouble and started running to his left. Jack had dismounted and was firing his Winchester at two men still alive and charging him hard. Two others lay on the prairie along with their horses. Clearly, Jack had chosen the largest targets he could see, the horses, and when the horses went down, so did their riders. One of the downed men was holding his arm as if it were broken, but still had a pistol in his hand. Mobley snapped a shot at him from fifty yards, not expecting to hit him, but did anyway. The last two riders went down, one wounded and the other dead as they bounced on the prairie. Jack immediately shot the wounded man, who had gotten to one knee trying to bring a pistol to bear.

Mobley swung around to check on Edson, and saw him well ahead of the three men who were trying to run him down.

As Edson had suggested, the raiders had been making a large circle searching for prey. Somehow, they had managed to get far enough ahead to set up their ambush. When they did make their move, Mobley knew immediately Edson had been correct. The men were poorly mounted, but reasonably well armed with older Colt pistols and Henry rifles. Mobley, Jack and Edson were even better armed, but only Jack had had time to make use of his rifle.

Edson had taken advantage of the speed of his horse, Beauty, to outrun the raiders who had taken after him, and Mobley knew he must follow and catch up to them as fast as he could. He located Meteor, who was crow hopping in a small circle as she fought off the pain of the ear wound. Mobley swung into his saddle and whacked her hard on the butt, using his quirt. She immediately broke into a flat out run, her powerful driving hooves tearing up sod as she saw and tried to catch up to Beauty. Blood was streaming down her neck from the ear wound, but she was no longer in a panic.

Jack quickly mounted his own horse and joined in the chase. Within less than a minute, they’d come up behind the remaining outlaws. Their horses were just as Edson had predicted, underfed, out of condition, and as bony as a pond full of carp. The raiders had been whacking them with long leather straps, more like whips than quirts, but it did little good. They’d run but a few hundred yards and Mobley could already see gobs of white foam flying from their flanks. A couple of the animals were virtually staggering as they tried to climb the gently rolling hills of the prairie. They had no chance of catching up to Edson, and when he saw Jack and Mobley following close behind, he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. He took a deliberate, chancy stance directly in front of the bandits and aimed his rifle at their horses. Bang, Bang, Bang. Down they went, with all three raiders managing to escape being crushed. Mobley and Jack were upon them before they could run or hide, and the battle was over. The three men dropped their weapons and held up their hands.

Mobley ordered them to lay flat on the ground. Put your hands on your heads and don’t even twitch. They dropped like sacks of feed thrown from a storage silo.

The raiders’ scraggly horses, the few still left alive and unhurt, wandered around for a few moments, awaiting commands that did not come, and then gathered together in a rag-tag herd looking about for others. Finally, one of the skinnier nags dropped its head and commenced to graze.

Jack approached the prostrate men. He roughly ordered them to stay put, and tossed his two sets of handcuffs to Edson. Jack and Mobley then rode back to check out each of the men scattered around on the ground. Jack discovered one still alive. He looked at Mobley, then back at the man. We have a live one here, Mobley. It must have been one of Edson’s.

Edson arrived at that moment with his three bandits handcuffed and walking ahead. He ordered them to lay face down on the ground and keep their hands on their heads. After examining the wounded man, he gave Jack a glare.

Mine? Not likely. He was chasing after you, not me, and I didn’t shoot any of them.

Jack pondered the matter. Well, you’re right — you are some dangerous horse killer, though. Tough shots, were they?

What difference does it make? I was tryin’ to take prisoners. And if I’m not mistaken, there are a couple of dead horses layin’ over your way, too, and one that’s still alive and kickin.’ You’d best get over there and put it out of its misery.

Jack looked back to where he had taken his stand. Where, I don’t see any wounded horses?

He’s there, but the last I saw of him he was limpin’ down the other side of where you stopped.

Sure, and I’m a monkey’s uncle.

Edson smiled. That would explain much. Now, do I have to go clean up after you, or are you going to do your own dirty work?

Jack grimaced. Got on his horse and rode back to his old position. A few minutes later, a single pistol shot rang out and Jack came riding back over the knoll. He was back with them in short order. Well, there was a wounded horse over there, but I still don’t think it was mine.

Mobley shook his head. His Marshals were forever poking at each other. There was usually a subtle reason for it. He knew in this instance it was a method of releasing tension, for he felt it himself.

As he examined the wounded man, it was clear the wound was mortal and the shot had been his, not Jack’s or Edson’s. He did not admit it had been his shot that had done the deed, for though he enjoyed the banter as much they did, he was feeling the pain of the man lying before him.

The hole in his chest, an exit wound, was a terrible sight. The bullet had expanded dramatically as it blew out a spinal bone and then spread apart as it passed through the rest of his body. Mobley now realized just how effective the new .45 Colt pistol was as a killing machine. With a velocity and expansion rate that challenged the mind, he knew a hit from this weapon anywhere on a man’s body was likely to mean the end of his life. This man was already dead for practical purposes; but he somehow held on to life even while gasping his last few moments on this Earth.

The dying man was no more than twenty years old. Just a kid, Mobley thought, but he clearly knew what was happening. He looked up at Mobley and whispered, coughing up blood as he did so. Tell my ma, would you? She won’t be happy at the way I died, but glad to know I did. He coughed some more, but seemed determined to complete his statement. "She lives — Ft. Smith; Norma — gasp — McCree. Last I heard — married a blackheart gambler named Hogback Harry. I don’t know for sure how to address a letter to her — gasp — but someone will know how to find her."

His words now were a mere rattle. He was going fast. Mobley knelt beside him to make sure he heard everything the man said. "They called me, Smokey. A damned Comanche raped my mother — and killed her husband. She gave birth to me, but never cared if I lived or died. She hated me — rattle — I was an outcast and knew it, so I behaved like one — rattle. I figure if there is a God, this is how he wanted me to die, and I ain’t gonna repent now after what he put me through." The coughing got worse, and more blood oozed out of his mouth.

Mobley nodded at the man, thinking he’d send a telegram from Fort Worth. Jack interrupted his thoughts by asking: Shouldn’t we put him out of his misery?

Mobley hesitated, but the bandit gasped, Thanks. No prayers. Leave me for the buzzards — all I deserve.

Jack drew his pistol, but Mobley stopped him. He stared down at the dying man. Do you plead guilty to attempted murder, Smokey, and waive your right to trial? I am a judge, you see, and while we are not averse to executing you in order to put you out of your misery, it must be carried out in a legal manner.

Smokey looked up, obviously confused; but nodded his head and whispered, Yes.

Very well, I will write this all down in my docket book and you will be executed as requested. Jack, will you do the honors?

Jack looked at Mobley and shook his head as if disgusted. Of course, now stand back or you’ll get some gore on that newly cleaned jacket of yours.

Mobley and Edson stepped back. Jack fired one shot directly between the bandit’s eyes.

Jack stared at the young bandit. "They called him, Smokey? Should have called him, Gabby — the sonofabitch — as if we give a bugger hump why he became a murderous, motiveless malignancy." He then walked to the three other bandits, reloading his pistol as he approached them.

"Are you cabrones ready for your visit to El Diablo?"

Mobley quickly stepped forward and put his hand on Jack’s pistol, stopping him from sending the men to hell. They weren’t wounded, and although he sympathized with Jack’s desire, he was, again, considering the implications of the law. No — No, we need to do this right. Fort Worth can’t be far now; and we should be able to give them a trial before we hang ‘em. Smokey couldn’t make it there, but these three jackals can.

He looked around, noted the skinny horses grazing nearby and considered what to do with them. Let’s round up these nags and take ‘em with us. Someone may want ‘em, and it looks like with a bit of care, a few of them might still make some old lady a nice Sunday plodder.

Jack and Edson both looked at Mobley as if he were crazy. Jack shook his head. You do know who these three are, don’t you?

Who? They look like the scum they are. I don’t recall ever seeing them before, and don’t give a hoot.

Well, I guess you wouldn’t. You were laying there on the train stoop trying to bleed to death last year while I was questioning the wounded survivors of this gang. And, from the descriptions they gave before I sent them off to visit their ancestors, these three have to be Kinch West, Snag Weris, and the man they called, ‘Screech,’

No foolin’?

"Yes. And they deserve to die the same as that other cabron."

Jack paused and stared at Mobley. I have to tell you, Mobley — I’ve never seen a better thinker or killing machine than you, but I’m wondering if this soft spot you’ve got for the law and doing things right might get us all killed someday. These scum don’t give a damn about it, so when they attack us with intent to kill, why should we go easy on them?

Mobley stared back at Jack, understanding what he was saying, but not liking it. "Because it’s the right thing to do. Shootin’ a defenseless guilty man when you have an opportunity to observe the law and do it right, is just part of it. Like I told you last year when I took the time to bury them Comancheros, civilization is catching and this country is desperately in need of it. When I have the opportunity to do something right and legal, that’s the way I’m going to do it. In fact, I’ve sworn an oath to do so, and I don’t take such things lightly. And don’t forget, you’ve both sworn to uphold the law as well. Sometimes it ain’t easy, I’ll grant; but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna shoot some poor dumb unarmed asshole, or let anyone else do it just because I’m in a hurry."

Jack holstered his pistol. He kicked Kinch West in the ribs. "Get up, you swine. We’re taking you in to hang, and I for one am going to enjoy doing it."

Chapter 2

Kinch West was not a happy bandit as he rode handcuffed to his saddle horn, unable to roll a cigarette or scratch his butt. Snag Weris was stoic. Though similarly secured, he knew he was going to hang and figured he deserved it. Screech, known by no other name he or anyone else knew of, was a whiner. All he could do was bawl and slobber his innocence, notwithstanding the fact he and his two outlaw friends had, within the past three