Pearlie and Cal were conspicuously quiet about a certain subject—bear sign—since they didn’t want the other hands to know they had enjoyed a treat that afternoon. The other hands would be jealous if they found out. Sally’s bear sign provoked a passionate response in anybody who ever tried them.
After supper, as the others lingered over second cups of coffee, Ace said, “I reckon Chance and I ought to head out to the bunkhouse with the rest of the fellas—”
“Nonsense,” Sally said crisply. “We have plenty of room. Smoke and I built this house intending to have a big family someday, and until we do, guests are more than welcome. Besides, your name is Jensen. You should think of this as your home, whether you’re related by blood or not.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Sally,” Chance said. “We’ll try not to be in your hair for long.”
She shook her head. “You’re more than welcome. Anyway, with that storm blowing in—listen to the wind howl!—the weather may not be fit for traveling for several days. And it’s almost Christmas. No one wants to be alone for Christmas.”
“We’re really obliged to you, Miss Sally,” Ace told her. “You and Smoke make us feel like we’re home, that’s for sure. We never had much of one when we were little, you know. The man who raised us, Doc Monday, he moved around a lot and took us with him.”
“He was a gambler, you said?” asked Smoke.
“That’s right.”
“But he wasn’t your father?”
“No, sir. According to what Doc told us, our real pa was killed in the war.”
There was no need for Ace to specify which war he was talking about. The Late Unpleasantness was years in the past, but memories of it still cast a large shadow over the nation.
Smoke nodded solemnly. “That fate befell a lot of good men on both sides. Too many. My pa survived, and so did my brother Luke, although for a lot of years I believed he hadn’t. They were a couple of the lucky ones.”
Everyone was silent for a moment then Sally stood up and said, “I’ll finish clearing the table. Why don’t you men go into Smoke’s study and talk? Preacher, you and Mr. Callahan need to settle whatever this trouble is between the two of you.”
Preacher started guiltily. “Why, uh, I reckon I don’t know what you’re a-talkin’ about, Miss Sally.”
“Nonsense. I have eyes in my head, don’t I? I can see that you’re angry at each other, and old friends shouldn’t let things like that fester between them. You should work it out now while you have the chance.”
“Before one or both of you cross the divide,” Smoke added bluntly. “Sally’s too tactful to say that, but given how old you both are . . .”
“All right, dagnab it,” Preacher snapped. “You don’t have to remind me I’m old as dirt. I ain’t likely to forget it.”
“Neither am I,” said Eagle-Eye. “My bones remind me ever’ mornin’, especially the cold ones, like it’s sure gonna be tomorrow. Ten below zero, I figure.”
Preacher snorted. “Won’t even get down to zero, I’ll wager.”
“Well, you’re just wrong.”
“You see. You should be arguing about the weather, not whatever else it is that’s bothering you.” Sally made shooing motions with her hands. “Go on now. Hash it out, as Smoke would say.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to hash out,” Eagle-Eye said in a surly tone. “Won’t but one thing settle this, and Preacher knows what it is.”
“Don’t make me have to oblige you on that, Eagle-Eye,” Preacher warned.
Smoke stood up. “Come on, or I’ll grab you both by the ears and drag you in there.”
“I’d like to see you try it!” Preacher and Eagle-Eye responded in perfect unison.
* * *
A few minutes later, Smoke was sitting behind his desk in the comfortable room that functioned as his study, office, and library. Sally loved to read, and he found it an enjoyable pastime himself, so he had filled the shelves with scores of leather-bound volumes, mostly histories and novels, along with a set of Shakespeare’s plays that Preacher’s old friend Audie had given to him.
Preacher sat in a leather armchair in front of the desk. Eagle-Eye had refused Smoke’s offer of a seat and paced back and forth. Ace and Chance stood over by the bookshelves. Since they had befriended Eagle-Eye, Smoke thought it was all right for them to be there for the discussion, and the old-timer hadn’t raised any objections.
“Preacher told me the whole story, Eagle-Eye,” Smoke began. “As much as he knows of it, anyway. This whole thing has taken him completely by surprise.”
“I never saw the day when Preacher could be surprised by much of anything,” said Eagle-Eye. “He knowed about it, all right.”
“See,” Preacher said, “you got your mind all made up already, and it’d take a whole case full o’ dynamite to blast any sense into that thick skull o’ yours!”
Chance said, “Ace and I don’t know the whole story. We thought Eagle-Eye and Preacher were old friends.”
“We might not have thrown in with him and ridden down here if we’d known the truth,” added Ace.
“Might not have?” Preacher asked.
“Well, as it turns out, it’s a good thing we were here,” Ace pointed out. “We were able to stop that gunfight before it ever got started.”
“That’s true,” Smoke agreed. “I guess that earns you boys the right to know what’s going on. Preacher, would you like to tell them?”
Eagle-Eye flung out a hand “He’ll just lie about it, like he’s lied about ever’thing else! I’ll tell it.”
Preacher twisted around in the chair and started to get up angrily. Smoke motioned him back down.
Eagle-Eye turned to Ace and Chance. “I was married for nigh on to forty years to a woman named Louisa. She helped me run that tradin’ post up in Montana, and I always figured she was fine, just fine.”
“She was,” Preacher growled.
Eagle-Eye glared at him for a second, then went on. “She passed away awhile back, and after she did, I found a bunch o’ letters she’d wrote to that worthless skunk over there, tellin’ him how much she loved him and how she”—he seemed to choke for a moment—“how she longed for the two of ’em to be together. She got, uh, pretty plain-spoken about it, too. There was talk about . . . hand-holdin’ and porch-sittin’ and things like that. It was clear to me from what she wrote that Preacher had been wooin’ her behind my back for a long time. Ain’t no telling what-all he done to put the lie to what I figured was a good marriage.”
“I’ll tell you what I done,” Preacher said. “Nothin’! I never saw Louisa but ever’ three or four years when I’d swing by the tradin’ post to visit a mite. She was a good cook, may she rest in peace, and I sure did admire to sit down at the table for a meal she cooked, but that’s all. All that . . . courtin’ stuff . . . in her letters. . . that was in her head, Eagle-Eye. That’s all. I swear it.”
Eagle-Eye stared at him and said in a half-whisper, “You’re askin’ me to believe that my wife never really loved me.”
Preacher couldn’t contain himself any longer. He sprang up out of the chair and exclaimed, “O’ course she loved you, you durned ol’ ignoramus! She stayed married to you for all them years, didn’t she? She worked hard ever’ day of her life to keep you happy and to make that business o’ yours a success. Just ’cause she liked to amuse herself in an idle moment now an’ then by thinkin’ about what things might’ve been like if she’d done got hitched up with me, that don’t mean she loved you any less!”
Chance leaned over to Ace and said quietly, “I think he’s got a point.”
Ace inclined his head in agreement.
Eagle-Eye stared intently at Preacher while several seconds ticked past. Then he lifted his right hand and scrubbed it over his face as his shoulders slumped wearily. “You’re tellin’ me the truth?” he asked in a hollow voice.
“Damn right I am. About me, and about Louisa, too. Blast it, Eagle-Eye, I don’t cotton to you acti
n’ like this. You oughta be happy you had all those years with her. That’s a whole heap more ‘n I ever had with any gal I had feelin’s for. The only dishonorin’ bein’ done here is by you . . . dishonorin’ her memory.”
Eagle-Eye’s hands clenched into fists, and he took a step toward Preacher. Across the room, Ace and Chance stiffened, but Smoke lifted a hand and gestured discreetly for them to stay out of it. This was between Preacher and Eagle-Eye, and it needed to be settled at last, short of a fight to the death. Smoke was confident that his old mentor wasn’t in any danger, and if necessary, he could step in to keep Preacher from seriously injuring his old friend.
Eagle-Eye’s hands dropped and relaxed before he could throw a punch. A long sigh came from him. “You’re right. I know you’re right, damn it. I reckon in my heart I’ve known it all along. It was just . . . so hard to accept.”
“Well, hell, I can see how it would be,” said Preacher. “But you can see now that there ain’t no reason we shouldn’t still be old friends.” He stuck out his hand.
Eagle-Eye hesitated, but only for a couple heartbeats. He grasped Preacher’s hand, pumped it twice, and pulled Preacher into a rough hug. The two old mountain men pounded each other on the back.
“Damn it,” Eagle-Eye said. “I sure am glad I didn’t blow a hole through you.”
“Yeah, you and me both,” Preacher responded dryly. “Although there ain’t much chance that would’ve ever happened.”
“The hell it wouldn’t! I’m as sharp-eyed as ever.”
“Maybe we’ll just have to have us a little shootin’ contest.”
While the two old-timers were talking—peacefully, thank goodness—Ace and Chance went over to the desk.
Ace asked quietly, “So it’s all over now?”
“Just like that?” Chance asked.
Smoke nodded “Appears to be. Those old mountain men were hot-tempered, but they got over it pretty fast unless there was a real reason to hold a grudge. I don’t think we have to worry much about Eagle-Eye anymore.”
“So everything turned out peaceful after all,” Ace said.
“Well . . . this did,” Smoke said. “You never know what else might be waiting around the next bend in the trail.”
The window pane rattled a little as a gust of wind hit it. If the men in the study had looked out then, they would have seen that the snow was so thick, visibility was down to just a few feet and closing in fast.
CHAPTER 25
Outside Big Rock
The men on horseback formed a long line as they rode along, leaning forward in their saddles. They hunched their shoulders inside their coats against the bone-chilling cold of the hard wind that blew in their faces. They had pulled their hats down and wrapped scarves or bandannas around the bottom part of their faces, so that only the area around their eyes was exposed to the wind.
That was still enough to cause a problem. If they didn’t find some shelter soon, they were going to be in serious trouble. Frostbite wasn’t even the worst thing they had to worry about. There was a distinct possibility that they might freeze to death.
The group was fifty strong, with another four men bringing up the rear on two wagons loaded with supplies. Their leader intended for most of them to lie low for a while, so they would need food. There might be supplies wherever they holed up, but Jim Bleeker wanted to be prepared for any contingency.
He was in the lead. Ray Morley moved his horse up next to Bleeker’s and called over the keening wind, “We got to find somewhere to get out of this weather, Jim! The men can’t go on much longer, and neither can the horses!”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, damn it,” growled Bleeker. “I know it’s December, but I wasn’t expecting to run into a storm like this!”
Morley didn’t say anything in response. Sometimes silence was the best option.
Bleeker wasn’t sure what time it was, and he didn’t want to fish around under his coat for his turnip watch so he could look and see. It didn’t matter, anyway. Night had closed down early because of the storm. It was black as pitch around them, and the thick, blowing snow made it even more impossible to see. They were riding blind, and he didn’t like it.
He had never expected that everything about his plan would go perfectly. There were always hitches.
Damn Frank Morgan, he thought.
Recruiting Morgan had seemed like a good idea at the time. Deep down, Bleeker believed in being honest with himself, even if he wasn’t with anybody else. He knew that Monte Carson was fast . . . faster than him.
But Carson wasn’t faster than Frank Morgan. It was possible nobody was. If Bleeker had been able to get Morgan on his side, he was confident that Monte Carson could be taken care of when the time came. It had never occurred to him that Morgan might turn down the lucrative payday he was being offered. The man was a hired gun, after all.
Well, Morgan was dead, so that option was gone, Bleeker thought.
That bumbling bunch of owlhoots, Clark and the others, had gone and gotten themselves killed, but at least they had pumped enough lead into the notorious gunfighter that Morgan had died, too, although he’d been stubborn enough to hang on until the next day before crossing the divide. Bleeker had read about it in the Rocky Mountain News before he’d gathered up the rest of his small army and headed for Big Rock.
Instead of relying on Morgan’s speed, they would just have to make do with their numbers. Bleeker didn’t know how many people lived in the settlement, but he was sure that more than fifty hardened killers would be sufficient to handle them.
He sat up straighter in his saddle as the wind suddenly parted the curtains of snow and shadow for a moment and he caught a glimpse of light up ahead.
Morley spotted it, too, and exclaimed, “Hey, Jim, did you see that?”
“Yeah, I did,” Bleeker replied. “Tell the men to stop.”
“They might not like that.”
“I’m not riding into something without knowing what it is,” snapped Bleeker. “You and I will go check it out. Now pass the word to halt.”
“Sure, Jim.” Morley turned his horse, moved it back to the next man in line, and passed along Bleeker’s command. Then he returned to the leader’s side.
The light had disappeared as the snow closed in again, but Bleeker had fixed its location in his mind during the brief moment he had glimpsed it. He was confident that he was headed in the right direction as he rode forward with Morley beside him.
If they weren’t going the right way, he thought, they ran the risk of getting lost in the storm and not being able to find the rest of the men again. The end result of that would probably be freezing to death.
Bleeker shoved that idea out of his head. Nothing was going to interfere with his revenge on Monte Carson. Certainly nothing like pure luck.
“There it is again!” Morley called, pointing.
Bleeker saw the light and a few minutes later, they reined to a stop in front of a log house. A barn loomed darkly off to one side, with an attached corral.
The horses would be crowded in that barn, thought Bleeker, but at least they would be out of the weather. Some of the men would have to stay in the hayloft, too, since they couldn’t all fit into the house.
“Looks like some greasy sack ranch,” Morley commented over the wind. “I don’t see a bunkhouse. Whoever owns the place must work it by himself, or maybe with a few of his kids.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bleeker said. “There’s a roof and a fire.” He could smell the wood smoke from the stone chimney.
They swung down from the saddle and tied their horses to the hitching post near the door. They could put the animals in the barn later, after they had found out what the situation in the house was—and dealt with it.
Bleeker stepped up and knocked heavily on the door. There was no response for a moment, then a man called cautiously, “Who’s out there?”
“A couple cold, weary travelers, friend,” Bleeker replied, leaning close
to the door as he tried to make his voice sound amiable and non-threatening. “We figured on making it to Big Rock, but the storm caught us before we could get there!”
Silence again, then, “How many of you are there?”
“Just the two of us.” It was possible someone inside the house was looking out through a window or loophole, so Bleeker didn’t want to lie about that. As far as the folks who lived there were concerned, only two half-frozen pilgrims stood on their doorstep.
Bleeker pressed his head to the door, thought he heard a woman’s voice speaking quickly, then a man replying to her. A few more seconds went by, then came the scrape of a bar being removed from the door.
It swung open, and the man inside said gruffly, “Come on in. Hurry up so not too much cold air comes in with you.”
Bleeker and Morley stepped through the doorway. It was warm inside, and the snow clinging to their clothes, hats, and faces began to melt right away.
Bleeker smiled and wiped some of the snow from his cheeks. “We’re much obliged to you folks. Don’t think we could have made it much farther.”
Despite his friendly pose, his brain was working quickly as he glanced around the room. The man who had let them in then hastily closed the door behind them stood there with a shotgun tucked under his left arm. He had the lean, leathery, perpetually hungry look of a none-too-successful rancher about him.
A few feet away, next to a rough-hewn table, stood a woman about the same age as the man who had the same worn-down-by-life appearance. Four youngsters were in the room as well, two boys in their middle teens holding single-shot rifles, a girl slightly older than the boys, and one a little younger. All of them stared warily at the newcomers.
“I’m Jim Johnson, and this is Ray Wilson,” Bleeker lied as he jerked a thumb at Morley.
“Ab Crockett,” the man introduced himself.
“Like old Davy, eh?” said Bleeker with a friendly grin. He started pulling off his gloves.
“That’s right. No relation that I know of, though.” Crockett didn’t offer to introduce his wife and children. “You can shake the snow off your coats and hats and hang them up to dry over by the fire, if you’d like.”
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