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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Tobin Rally, Regulator
Tom Sheehan
He came of gun age at the time The Regulators were still trying to manage the affairs of a good part of Texas, or their descendants sworn to do so, and being the grandson of Orville Rally, once side by side with Regulator leader Charlie Jackson back in the day, his path was laid out for him in East Texas. Tobin Rally learned quickly, and too easily some said, the way of the hand gun, the rifle, and the odd tools of sporadic warfare.
Tobin Rally was born into war, it was that cut and dry. His star was chosen and it fell flaming into East Texas, bringing with it all that the fates had to offer a young man, all for his own choosing it might appear, though the powers to-be could not let it be so.
The night he had his first drink in the Broken Saddle Saloon was the night he first drew his gun in anger at a mouthful of words. He did not draw his gun against a horse stealer or a rustler or some gent who shot a loved one, or even a man who drew down on him. It was just a drunk shooting off his ragged mouth. A friend, who knew better the twists of revenge and combustible law, grabbed his arm and saved him from death on a quick rope.
Tobin Rally’s bloodline was a boon on one side, and a fury on the other side, all from his grandfather’s war of his own back in East Texas for a good half dozen years up to 1844. That war thereafter simmered back into action with the advent of every stolen horse, every rustled cow, and every bit of coin taken from its till. Things past were not easily forgotten, by either side of the politics.
The Regulators stood at one end of the fulcrum and the Moderators stood on the other end of that precarious balance, as if their stands were always opposed to or supporting land theft, herd theft, and any crime against the people hatched in one camp or the other. There did not appear to be any “unconnected” criminals in East Texas, so deep did the commitments go for families, ranch hands, those in the pay of others or in their debt.
With his mind set formed, his politics and allegiance a hardened part of his growth pattern, Rally became a notorious and rambunctious gunfighter who fought on instinct, drew his weapon at first threat, and made his way around East Texas like a prince on the loose in Shelby and Harrison Counties and occasional visits to a few East Texas towns in other counties.
In the small settlement of Aqua Verdi, on the Texas-Louisiana border, Rally killed his first man when the man accused him of killing his wife a week previously on the porch of his ranch house. “I saw you plain as day and that saddle on your horse when you rode up and took a shot at me and killed my wife.”
“What kind of a horse was I supposed to be riding, mister, and what kind of a saddle makes you remember a plain old saddle? What time of day was it? You swear your eyes are good enough?”
Rally had one hip to the bar and was facing the obviously heartbroken rancher. Guns were sitting easy in their holsters and there was a large audience. Ego and sadness sat in the middle of the mix.
“It was evening and you was on a paint horse wearing three white socks, and the saddle was a Bona Allen saddle with skirt rigging. It had a flower stamp on the horn, and a rawhide covered tree. I’ve seen that kind before so I can describe it easy. That was the saddle you was riding. Can anybody here doubt I saw the saddle I just described? This man’s a plain all out killer and new to our town.”
Rally blew up. “I don’t ride a paint,” he said. “I ride a roan and she’s outside right now and I never heard of a Bona Allen saddle and you’re a liar. Right here in front of your folks, I’m calling you a liar. And I never shot a woman in my life.”
The man went for his gun and was dead before his shot hit the floor, going straight down, his finger still squeezed on the trigger.
The count on Tobin Rally had begun and the instances and incidents thence forward ranged around East Texas like a disease.
He had stand-downs and face-offs and sudden draws that came out of nowhere or were planned by numerous foes, some Moderator-caused and some not, but all were out to kill the young killer, knock him out of action, knock the count out of existence.
His description went everywhere on the tongues of people. It moved itself into conversations, erupted in saloons, and arose at camp fires out on the grass or in the foothills. Now and then, in the hands of a guitar player, a song came to be, about Tobin Rally, the Regulator. “Don’t try to take him in a duel/He’ll kill you just the same/Death comes damnedest cruel/He’ll kill you and take the blame/Tobin Rally, East Texas fightin’ fool.” Or “He’s the man sunsets bring/The dark killer at your door/Don’t let him in your house/or you won’t count anymore.”
A fiddler, from over from Louisiana way, sang. “Some say he’s a just a boy caught up in daddy’s past, but I saw him kill a killer just on Saturday last. That man drew down on Tobin standing at the rail, and Tobin killed him quicker than pounding down a nail.”
It went on, the story of the young man, often in truth, now and then in lies, a mix from the uninformed or misinformed, the truth an unknown commodity. It went before him, arrived in towns before he did, and stayed long after he left.
Rally, at the end of a long cattle drive with Regulator connections, was in The Wagon Master Saloon, in Sala Portico, when a man walked in carrying a long-eye looking glass that was about two feet long.
“How good is that thing?” Rally said to the man who stood beside him at the bar, apparently oblivious to the reputation, the history of the young Regulator, for other patrons had kept their distance from him after he ordered his first drink.
“Good as they get these days,” the man said. “My name’s Wayne Evans, from Summer’s Valley, on the Louisiana border. What’s your name?”
“My name’s Tobin Rally. How far can you see with it? Across a valley?”
“By all means,” Evans said. “Just coming in here this morning I saw one man trailing another man. Looked kind of suspicious to me, like one man didn’t want the other man to know he was being trailed. Both of them came into this town. The horse of the man that was being trailed is tied up outside.”
“What kind of horse?” Rally said. A strange look passed across his face, the look a man carries who has never carried a worry on his person the way some folks can say what they’re feeling without saying so plain outright.
“Why, a roan, with some chocolate in the mix. A horse with great spirit, who rides like a special animal ought to ride, like a prince or a king sits the saddle, like the handsome horse tied at the end of the rail.”
“That’s my horse,” Rally exclaimed. “Who was trailing me? What’s he look like?” His face was in Evans’ face, demanding the answer. Other saloon customers could almost see his hand reaching for his gun, the reputation here in the room the moment Rally walked in, known by all on his entrance.
“I couldn’t see his face but he was riding on a paint horse that had three white socks.” Evans was pointedly evasive with his answer, as if he was sworn to keep a secret.
“What was he wearing, this rider you’re talking about?” For a split second Evans was aware of a chink in the make-up of the man questioning him.
“Why, just dark clothes and a black hat. That’s about all I could tell.” Evans looked around the room, as if seeking credulity for his answers.
“You ever see him before, this fellow trailing me?”
“Not really,” Evans said, as he again looked into the eyes of many customers, almost as if drawing on their assistance in the matter being discussed.
Rally twisted around. “What do you mean by that? Not really?” He was, for the moment, unnerved.
“I dreamed of him once or twice,” Evans said. “Yeh, twice, in different dreams. I haven’t thought of those dreams in a while. This town might have shaken them loose of me. Or knowing he was trailing you, if the roan I saw was your horse.”
“Course it was my horse, with me on it,” Rally yelled back at Evans. “Who else is worth trailing in here?”
“You got me there,” Evans said. “I don’t know why a man trails another man unless he’s trying to catch him to fix a wrong done to him or his folks.”
“You saying I wronged this bushwhacker trailer?”
“I didn’t say that. You asked me why one man would trail another man, so I told you what reasons I’d have if I was in his shoes. Tracking’s hard work. You can’t miss a trick, and men on the run use lots of tricks, or men who don’t like to be trailed in the first place, no matter the reason for or against the trailing. It’s that simple with me.”
“Maybe your long glass is not as good as you think.”
“If you want to buy it, I’d be willing to sell it. $20 buys it,” Evans said, laying the long piece on the bar.
Rally, reaching into a vest pocket, slapped down two gold coins onto the bar top. “I own it,” he said, and then to everybody’s surprise, he said, “Now break it.” He laid the glass in front of Evans.
Evans shrugged his shoulders, put the glass up to his eye, and looked toward the door. “Not before you look at this,” he said, handing the long glass to Rally.
Rally, snarling, grabbed the looking glass, swung it up to his eye. His face changed. He stammered, his mouth dropped open, and stayed ajar. He dropped the looking glass and went for his gun, and pumped six shots right at the door of the Wagon Master’s Saloon.
In front of all the customers in the saloon, he visibly sagged in place, like a great weight was tossed down upon him.
With his gun empty, Tobin Rally was suddenly caught up by Evans who locked a set of handcuffs on him with ultimate ease. “Tobin Rally,” he said, “you’re wanted for murder in Wimberley, East Texas and I’m taking you back there.”
His hand twisted the hands of Rally, now locked in a vise grip. “You’re not going any place other than with me for a long time. A dozen folks in Wimberley are ready to step up and say it was you who killed a Moderator just for kicks. His name was Justin Evans and he was my brother. He was shot with no gun in his hand and no gun in his holster. It was at Doc Medick’s getting fixed, and people will swear to it. You plain all out shot an unarmed man, and Regulator or no Regulator, you’re going to pay the price for it. I don’t doubt for a minute that others will stand up and bring other charges against you.”
When the pair left, the looking glass still on the floor, a customer picked it up and looked toward the door. Turning around, he said to the barkeep. “Tony, what the hell do you make of this?” He handed him the looking glass.
The bartender, playing with it for a while, looking at both ends, said, “It’s simple. There’s a picture at one end of this thing. Looks like you’re looking down the trail somewhere and it’s real as hell. And there’s a gent on horseback, all dressed in black duds. That man looks like the gent who brought it in here and put the twisters on that Regulator fellow. I’ll be swearing to that until the day I die.”
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