Gabriel's Law

by Pierson, Cheryl

  Allie turned to look at him. He stood with several of the younger boys at the bottom step. Beside them in their new clothes, he looked like the orphan. The hems of his overalls were frayed. He wore no shirt, due to the May heat. His skin gleamed dark and wet with sweat. She'd have to go into town herself – and soon. If for nothing more than some new overalls for him. A chill raced up her spine. Spring Branch was closer for supplies, but danger awaited them all there until this matter was settled. Yet, the road to Hobart was filled with well-hidden gullies and hills where an ambush could be planned.

  Brandon released her and stepped down from the porch. "Jay, do you know the boundaries of our land?"

  "Sure do," Jay responded, his chest swelling. "We gonna get started on the pens?"

  They couldn't, she thought. Not yet. Brandon wasn't ready—

  "Let's do it," Brandon said. "Let's start building this ranch."

  "Brandon—"

  But he shook his head, giving her the look of stubborn determination she'd come to recognize. "We have to get to it, Allie. Those cattle gotta have a pen when they get here. Every day counts."

  She watched him walk away. As always, Brandon's inimitable logic was rock-solid. Inarguable. But that didn't keep her from worrying.

  * * * * *

  As Tom Carver approached Smith's cabin, he glanced around to be sure he was alone. Looking through the front window, he saw Arnie sprawled on the settee in the front room.

  "Come on in," Arnie called, before he could knock.

  Carver pushed the door open and came inside the small cabin. His nose wrinkled. "Stinks in here."

  Arnie gave him a defensive look. "I'm wounded. Remember? Can't walk…can't hardly sit…and I sure as hell can't wash dishes and clean. My apologies."

  Carver's lips curved in a mirthless smile. "I doubt Miss Allison Taylor's lost one night of sleep over what she done to you, Arnie." He ran a dirty finger over the layer of dust on the kitchen table, then took a step nearer to the settee. "I hear tell she's got her a bunch of orphan boys out at her place. You know anything about that?"

  Arnie gave a snort of disgust. "Really went and did it, huh? She said she would, someday. That's why she didn't want to marry me. I told her I wasn't interested in runnin' a damn orphans' home."

  Carver came on into the front room and sat down in a large overstuffed chair. What else did Arnie know about Allison Taylor?

  "You ever sleep with her?" he blurted. He'd been near sick with thoughts of her – her tawny skin and lithe, supple body; her eyes – mysterious, and holding secrets he wanted to learn all about. A wildcat, she was! But one he would enjoy taming. A vision rose up of the way she'd held that rifle, forcing the end to the beating they'd dealt that hired gun… He'd seen that over and over in his mind a million times. She'd been so cool, so collected – and she'd blasted the hell out of Arnie's leg, just like she said she would.

  "Hell, no," Arnie said with a scowl. He shifted, and let out a curse. "Never got close enough for that."

  "Too good for you, huh?" Carver goaded.

  Arnie gave him a murderous glare, then looked away. "Too good for me, but not too good for that dirty half-breed gunslinger. I still can't believe she saved his ass."

  "And shot you. Her future husband." Carver gave a sarcastic chuckle. He paused a moment. "You know, Gabriel's still there with her."

  "Figures. He wasn't in no shape to go anywheres else."

  "What do you suppose they're doin', Arnie?" Carver leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Bet she's givin' that gunslick all kinds of extra special care, don't you? At night, I bet she lays right there with him in bed. Prob'ly touches him all over, trails that long hair of hers across his—"

  "Shut up! Shut up, Tom!" Arnie started up off the couch, but fell back with a groan. "Don't'cha think I've thought of that? Huh?"

  Carver leaned back. It surprised him to see Smith's eyes glisten with tears. Arnie was going to be more of a problem than he'd thought. Damnation! He actually was in love with her!

  "Arnie," he said carefully, "you – you ain't in love with Allie Taylor, are you? Not really. You was just wantin' that place of hers, right?"

  Smith took a deep breath, composing himself. "I tried to tell myself that, at first. But I know better. It damn near broke my heart when she shot me, Tom. But I'd forgive her in a minute, if she'd have me. And not just for the land. Yeah. I guess… Maybe I do love her."

  Carver looked down, hiding his roiling thoughts. He'd known it might come to this. He'd been friends with Arnie ever since their school days. But he didn't intend to allow friendship to stand in the way of what he wanted – what he needed. The saddlery business was failing, now that Jake Hoskins had opened his shop over in Hobart. It was time for a new line of work. He figured Allie Taylor was ripe for the picking – along with her spread. But he didn't plan on keeping a bunch of orphans there. In fact, once she was his, her little half-breed kid would find himself gone, as well – one way or the other.

  He stood up, as if to take his leave. "Why'd she want all boys, Arnie? Ain't one girl in that bunch of orphan kids."

  "Said she wanted to buy cattle," he scoffed. "Make a ranch out of the place. Don't know how I'm gonna talk her out of that, now that the boys are already there."

  Carver smiled at his morose tone. That was one thing Arnie wouldn't have to worry about anymore.

  He drew his pistol and cocked it, leveling it at Arnie's wide midsection. A smile turned his lips at Arnie's disbelieving expression. Looked just like he had when Allie Taylor had shot him. Must be a helluva note to be plugged twice by different people in the space of a couple of days.

  "Tom? What the hell?"

  "Just easin' your mind a bit, Arnie. Allie Taylor ain't gonna marry you. The whole town knows that – everybody 'cept you, that is. So you won't mind bowin' out for good…and lettin' me give it a try."

  "Put that gun up, Tom." Arnie relaxed back onto the couch. "You been drinkin' or what? I love that girl. But it don't mean shit. I know she don't want me."

  "You're still in my way, though." Carver shook his head. "I hate to do this, but it's the only way."

  The realization that he meant it slowly dawned in Arnie's eyes, followed by anger. "You little bastard. This was my idea! Hiring the gun hawk, payin' your part of the money—"

  "Don't worry. I'll buy your casket." The gun was comforting in his hand. Soon, he'd be one step closer to his prize – Allie Taylor – and her spread, of course.

  "Don't do this, Tom."

  He cocked his head. "Got to. No other way to get what I want – not as long as you're in the runnin'."

  "You damn fool. Ain't neither of us 'in the runnin' – not since Brandon Gabriel came on the scene. Didn't you see the way she looked at him, Tom?" He shook his head. "I'm lucky she didn't just kill me when she had me in her sights."

  "Yes. You were lucky, then, Arnie. But your luck just ran out."

  * * * * *

  Doc stopped Ol' Rooster near the creek just outside of town to collect his thoughts. There would be questions he needed ready answers for, now that Owen wouldn't be accompanying him as expected. Old Mrs. Bell would be the first one to greet him – and notice he was alone.

  He'd always been truthful. But in this instance, truth could bring everything to a head too soon. He dismounted, leading the horse to the water. Doc leaned against an oak tree, stretching his muscles. He felt naked without his medical bag. Couldn't remember the last time he'd been without it. He grinned to himself. He swept his hat off and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. May never changed. It was always hot, but this year it had gotten hotter quicker, it seemed like.

  He had other patients who needed him. Mrs. McNally was due to deliver any minute. Mrs. Shaklee needed her broken arm checked. The Simons twins had been sick with summer complaint. And Arnie Smith. Maybe he could talk some sense into Arnie. He gave a snort of disgust. Smith was contemptible, and he wouldn't even bother with it, except for the fact that he felt some respons
ibility to Jimmy. Jimmy's mother had died in childbirth – the only woman he had ever lost in the birthing process. Had she lived, Jimmy wouldn't have been at the mercy of his father. But she hadn't, and Arnie was all Jimmy had.

  How was this going to end? Allie and Brandon deserved their chance at happiness. As far as the men of the town that had participated in the ambush, there were several who'd had second thoughts. Which way is the tide running now? He sighed heavily. Tom Carver, Arnie Smith, Abe Johnson…those were the bad apples. People like Zach Anderson were just along for the ride. The mob mentality. Thank God Allie had shown up when she did. Bad as it was for Brandon, it could've been so much worse.

  Doc walked back to where Ol' Rooster stood in the shade, having drunk his fill. "Might as well ride over to Arnie Smith's hadn't we?" He took the reins in his hand and swung into the saddle. "Save us a trip, since we're so close. We'll cut through the woods, here." He guided Ol' Rooster along a path through the trees, dodging and ducking limbs, cursing as a blackberry bush snagged his trousers with thorns.

  He had stopped to loosen the brambles when two gunshots sounded from the direction of Arnie Smith's house. Not rifle or shotgun, he thought. Pistol. He kicked the horse into action once more, clearing the edge of the woods a few seconds later. Smith's cabin was situation across the meadow, near the other side of the forest's edge.

  Doc scanned the area for any sign of guests, but the cabin looked quiet and still. Too still. He approached with caution, noting a tell-tale cloud of dust dissipating in the distance along the road. If he'd taken the road, he might've seen who it was.

  He stepped down from the saddle and looped the reins around the porch railing. The skin at the nape of his neck prickled. He stepped up onto the porch.

  "Arnie?" He knocked on the door. Arnie had to be here. He couldn't walk. Couldn't travel. "Arnie?"

  No answer.

  He pushed the door open, wishing for the first time in a long while that he'd worn a gun. First, do no harm. But don't be stupid.

  Arnie was lying face down on the floor beside the settee. Doc hurried in, kneeling beside him. The familiar coppery odor of blood was in the air, and as he turned him over, a crimson stain blossomed across his shoulder and another at his side.

  Arnie opened his eyes. "Doc? How'd you get here?"

  "Don't talk." Doc looked around the cabin for something he could use to stop the bleeding, finally going into a bedroom and ripping the sheet from the bed. He tore a long strip from it.

  "Doc—"

  "Quiet."

  "It was Tom Carver."

  Doc sat on his haunches, pulling Smith's shirt away from his skin. He stopped, looking into his eyes to be sure he was lucid. "That must've been his dust on the road."

  Smith grunted as Doc pressed on the wound at his side to stem the blood flow.

  "He'll be back," Doc muttered aloud. "He'll want to be sure he finished you off. They always come back."

  Smith's chin trembled. "My boy…"

  "Don't worry, now," Doc soothed, tying off the temporary bandage at Smith's shoulder. "When he gets here, I'll send him after my medical bag."

  "No! What if—" he broke off, grimacing.

  "All right, Arnie. You want him to stay here? With us?"

  "Not if…Tom comes…"

  "Let's don't worry about that right now. Just try not to talk, and let me get this bleeding stopped."

  Smith whimpered like a wounded puppy as Doc helped him sit up.

  He quickly wrapped a bandage around his side, tying it off, and then slipped another piece of the folded sheet under the strip where the bullet hole was.

  "Will I live?"

  Doc suppressed a smile as he nodded and stood up. The wounds were bad, but Arnie had enough padding to protect his vital organs. "We've gotta get that bullet out of your side, but it looks like the other one passed through cleanly." He glanced around the cabin. "Arnie, where's your pistol?"

  He nodded toward the bedroom. "Back there. Got a peg for the belt back there. I usually leave the gun in the holster."

  "I'll go get it. Just in case Carver does come back here before we can get you moved and—"

  The click of a gun behind him stopped him in mid-sentence. He slowly turned to see Tom Carver's smiling face framed in the open window, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

  "Too late, old man. I'm already here."

  Chapter 21

  Allie screwed the last lid on tight. Nine mason jars of water. She had no more empty ones. Two of the younger boys had stayed behind to 'help' her when the others had gone to begin the fence-building. Mark held the first tow sack open as she placed five jars in it. He reached for another, opening it as she set two jars inside. She put them close together and looped the tow sack to hold them in place, then handed it to him.

  "Careful, now. They'll break if they clink together too much."

  He nodded solemnly. "Now Lenny's, Miss Allie."

  She smiled at the way he watched over the other boy, Lenny, who was about the same age, but had never said a word since they'd arrived. Lenny opened his sack, and Allie put the last two jars inside, tying it off. "Let's go," she said. "They'll be glad to get a cold drink of water, I imagine, don't you?"

  "Yep," Mark said, carefully hoisting his sack over his shoulder. Lenny did the same, and Allie lifted the heaviest one gently to hold it slung across her shoulder.

  The day was already a scorcher, and it was early yet – barely noon. Allie had wracked her brain to come up with an idea for a filling lunch. She had been woefully short on supplies – even before she'd acquired eighteen orphans and two men.

  As much as she hated to admit it, one of the cows would have to be butchered when they arrived. It was the only way to have meat without going into Spring Branch or Hobart.

  For today, she had biscuits in the oven, and she planned to make scrambled eggs to fill them with. Mark had suggested it – a kind of egg sandwich. She glanced down at him as they walked past the barn. He smiled up at her.

  "Thank you for letting us come live here, Miss Allie."

  "You're welcome, Mark. You'll be a good cattleman someday."

  His smile faded and he looked away. "I guess so."

  "Something wrong with that?" The happiness had seemed to drain from him. "Mark?" she questioned when he made no reply.

  "Miss Allie, I don't want to raise cattle," he blurted. "I want to be a doctor – like Doc Wilkins, and Doc Morris."

  It had never occurred to Allie that the boys might not want to take part in her plan – that they might have one of their own. She stopped to look at Mark. "You – you want to be a doctor?"

  He nodded vigorously. "I even got the same name as him – well, almost." Allie smiled at his six-year-old enthusiasm. It was obvious he'd done some thinking about this.

  "You too, Lenny?"

  "Uh-huh," Mark answered for his friend. "On account of he's afraid of horses and cows. We just want to help people get well."

  Allie started walking again, silent in her own thoughts. She'd believed that this cattle ranch was something any boy would want to be a part of. She'd never stopped to consider the children's wishes; what they hoped for and dreamed of. And, of course, that was only natural, wasn't it? Everyone had visions of their own…

  As they approached the area where Owen was overseeing the stringing of the wire with some of the older boys, Mark and Lenny stopped, handing off their welcome offering of the water jars.

  Sam took the sack Allie was shouldering and fell in step beside her toward where Brandon and some of the others worked, setting the fence posts. They all worked shirtless, their bodies glistening with sweat.

  "What do you think?" Allie blurted.

  "About what, ma'am?" Sam replied cautiously.

  "Being here? This idea." She stopped and looked at him. "How old are you, Sam?"

  "Fifteen, ma'am. But I'll be sixteen in a couple of months – I know they said the oldest of us was fourteen but—"

  Allie waved a hand. "It does
n't matter. Surely you have an idea of what you want to do with your life, don't you?"

  "Well, yeah! I mean…I'm doin' it."

  She nodded, looking down at the ground. "If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?"

  "Ranchin', of course," he answered with no hesitation.

  "But not all the boys feel like that, and it's understandable."

  "It's a great chance! A way to get started."

  "If it's what you like. What you want in life."

  "Who wouldn't?" He shifted the jars, and Allie started forward again.

  "Mark and Lenny."

  Sam snorted. "They're too young to know anything."

  Allie shook her head, recalling their enthusiasm. "I don't think so, Sam. And I'm sure there are others besides them."

  "Maybe," he said uncomfortably.

  She smiled at his uneasiness. "It's all right. It's just something I didn't think of."

  Brandon walked up to join them as they reached his group. "What's that?"

  Allie looked at him. "Giving the boys a choice, if we can. It never dawned on me they might not all be cut out for ranching."

  By the light in his eyes, Allie could see it wasn't a new concept to him. "Why didn't you say something?"

  The boys converged around them as Sam passed out the water jars.

  Brandon took a long drink before answering. "I figured you'd come to it, sooner or later." He passed the jar to Sam.

  "I take it that's why you weren't as enamored of the idea as I was," she said tartly.

  He shrugged. "Partly. It's a lot of work all around. Especially for you." His features softened and he said in a low voice, "It might be best to let some of them follow a different path, Allie."

  "I won't farm them out to people like – like Hiram Nielson!"

  "No. I didn't say that. But there are some good people out there who might be willing to step forward. Make everyone's dreams come true. Some of these boys might be happier in a smaller family setting."

  There was more he wasn't saying, due to the boys. She nodded her understanding. "We'll figure something out."

  He leaned toward her and kissed her forehead instead of her lips, laughing at the disappointment in her expression. "Later," he whispered, turning back to the boys. "Let's get three more posts set before lunch!"