House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Let’s have some fiddle music, Pa!” she said, and soon the cabin was filled with the rich tones of the instrument. Later, they all went out, and Zane gave them an exhibition of his prowess with the rifle, happy to discover that two boxes of shells came with it. Then nothing would do but that they must take a hike through the woods so that Buck could show them how he was going to find coons.

  They found no coons, of course, but that didn’t matter. They stayed up late that night, Buck curled against Cody in front of the fire, Amos touching the fiddle fondly, and Zane oiling the rifle, cleaning it until Amos said, “Boy, you’re gonna rub the bluin’ off that rifle gun! Now don’t sleep with it and blow your foot off, hear me?”

  Finally Zane and Cody were in their bed, and Hope sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with her father. She had been happy all day, but now as they sat there, she grew sad. “You’ll hate to leave this place, won’t you, Pa? It’s been home for so long.”

  “Good memories,” he answered quietly. “But life has to go on. I’m praying that this will be a good thing for Zane and Cody—and for you, Daughter.” His eyes, hidden by the shadows, glinted as the flames leaped in the fireplace. There was a sadness in him, but he kept it to himself. “This farm is wore out. The West is the place for young folks like you and the boys. I’m glad to live long enough to see it come.”

  Hope was curled up beside him, staring into the fire, and he let his hand drop to her head, caressing it as he had done when she was a little girl. She reached up and held it, pressing it tightly, then said, “I’m afraid, Pa.”

  She had never spoken of the time ahead, not so honestly, yet Amos knew her fears. He wanted to tell her not to be afraid, that everything would be good—but he was too honest a man for that. Finally he said, “Hope, you’re a fine woman. You’re like your mother was. She was strong—stronger than most men, I think.”

  “I miss her, Pa!”

  “Sure. Me too.” Amos suddenly rose and left the room. When he came back from his bedroom, he had his worn, black Bible in his hand. Sitting down, he thumbed through the pages, found a place, then looked at Hope.

  “When your mama died, Hope,” he said, “her last words were about you.”

  “About me, Pa?”

  “Yes. I was sittin’ beside her, holding her hand. She’d been in some sort of a coma. But she just opened her eyes all of a sudden, and her mind was clear.” Amos paused, his eyes grown gentle as the memories came to him. Hope said nothing, her face turned up to him. “She told me goodbye, and then she told me to take care of you and Zane. And then she said, ‘Amos, one day Hope is going to have a great need. God has given me something to help her.’ She was going out, Hope, the life just leaving her body, but with the last strength she had, she said, ‘Give her this—from the Lord—For the Lord hath called thee as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth when thou wast refused, saith thy God. For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment: but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer.’ ”

  Amos leaned toward Hope, his finger on a page of the Bible. “It’s in Isaiah fifty-four, Daughter, verses six through eight.”

  Hope took the Bible, read the verses, then looked up. “What does it mean, Pa?”

  “Well, I don’t reckon I know. But Ellie got it from God, and I think sometime or other, it’s going to mean a lot to you. I’ve pondered it ever since she gave it to me, wondering if it was time to give it to you, but it never seemed just right.” He put his arms around her and held her close. “Daughter, it’s time now, and I pray that you’ll take this as your ma’s last gift—something she got from God. She loved you more’n you’ll ever know, and I think she saw something coming, and I think she asked the Good Lord to undertake to keep you from it.”

  Hope rested her head on her father’s chest, a little frightened, but the thought of her mother thinking of her and praying for her at the very moment she slipped away from earth brought her joy.

  “I’ll remember, Pa!” she whispered. “I’ll always remember!”

  ****

  The South Platte River flowed north of Denver, a wide, shallow river nestled between mountains that shouldered their way from the earth, rising high to the north. Cody had begged to be allowed to trail the herd, and Zane had promised to look after him. Hope, driving the supply wagon with her father lying down inside, had gone ahead with the cook, a small, taciturn man with the unlikely name of Ozzie Og. They left the herd at dawn, drove the team at a fast clip, and set up on the bank of the river in time to build a fire and cook for the crew.

  Ozzie gathered firewood and some large, flat rocks with which to make a fireplace, leaving Hope to unpack the supplies for the meal. Amos got out and stretched his legs, then began picking up firewood. By the time Og had made a suitable fireplace and started a fire, Hope had gotten out the supplies. The two of them made dough for baking powder biscuits, started a big roast in the black pot, mixed the ingredients for cream gravy, and made four pies to bake in a large metal oven buried in hot coals.

  “I’m gonna start on my sourdough,” Og announced, and Hope watched him carefully. The tight-mouthed cook’s sourdough biscuits were the best she’d ever had, but he’d lost his starter back in New Mexico, crossing the Canadian River. Og took two potatoes and boiled them until they were falling apart, strained them through a cloth, and poured the juice into a wooden keg that had originally held kraut. He added a cup of sugar and then flour until he had a thin batter. Setting the keg close to the glowing coals, he clamped the wooden lid down firmly, saying, “Gotta keep this here keg warm all night. When this sourdough starts working, it’ll be ready for making biscuits in two, three days.”

  It was the longest speech Hope had heard Og make since they had left Texas, and she glanced at him with surprise. “Where’d you learn to cook, Ozzie?”

  “Around cow outfits in Texas—when I was a kid.” That apparently was his conversation for the afternoon, and he clamped his lips shut like a purse.

  Hope saw her father take his Bible and sit down in the shade of the wagon. “I’ll take a walk down the river, Pa. Guess the herd won’t be here until nearly dark.” He nodded, saying, “Don’t stray too far.”

  She left the campsite and made her way down the southern bank of the Platte, noting right away that it would be an easy crossing for the cattle. It came to her that this was the sort of thing she would never have noticed two months ago when the drive had started from Texas. It was one of the imperceptible changes that the last two months had made. She was not the same woman, she mused, stopping to poke into the shallows with a sharp stick picked up from the bank.

  A fish broke the surface ten feet out, rolling out of the water, the sun striking its scales and turning them for one moment into flashing silver. She stared at the roiling water, wondering if the fish were good to eat and wishing that she could put out a line. But there was no time for fishing on this drive, and she continued downstream, enjoying the solitude. The sun was hot in Colorado, as hot as it had been in Texas and New Mexico. It burned her neck, and she glanced down at her arms, a warm brown, toasted by the days under the sun.

  Finally she walked into a grove of cottonwoods and stopped to enjoy the shade. She took off her boots and waded in the river, enjoying the coolness of the water. The touch of it made her think of how long she had been dirty, and she realized that she hadn’t had a bath for weeks. Won’t find a better chance than this, she thought, and stripped off her clothing. The water was colder than she expected, the chill of it taking her breath, but after she grew accustomed to it, she reveled in the sensation. Finally she climbed back onto the bank, allowed the sun to dry her off, then dressed, wrinkling her nose at the dirty clothing.

  She sat down on a flat rock, letting the sun dry her hair, and the thought came to her again that she wasn’t the same woman she’d been when she’d left Texas. This was almost
the first time she’d been alone since that day, and now the silence and the expansive landscape around her seemed to bring back memories.

  She remembered how Willis had gone to Texas alone to buy his herd. When he returned he came for her, driving her into Fort Smith, where they were married by a Baptist preacher. The wedding was quick, for he was anxious to start the drive. Any hopes she had cherished that Willis Malloy would be a more gentle man in private than he was in public were shattered during their two-day honeymoon in a local hotel. She was greatly relieved when they headed back, picked up her family, and made a fast trip to Texas, where the cattle drive started at once.

  The herd was small, no more than four hundred head, mostly young stock. Malloy didn’t tell her that he’d lost a great deal of money in a poker game, and not only had to cut back on the number of steers he’d planned to buy, but could afford only two hands and a cook to make the drive.

  They had left the end of March, following the Pecos north from Texas into New Mexico. It was slow going, difficult for Hope and more so for her ailing father. Amos rode in a wagon loaded with supplies, with Hope driving so that he could lie down and rest from the heat of the sun. The boys both did fine. Zane was furnished a horse and did his share of the driving, as good a worker as any man. Malloy said to Hope, “That Zane, he’s gonna be a real puncher. Cody, too, when he gets his growth.”

  Hope made herself useful, helping with the cooking, and even riding beside the herd at times to keep the cattle from straying. The two hands Willis had taken on were both young. One of them, Randy Duggins, was a tall, rangy young man of twenty-five. He was not an accomplished rider, being new to the trade, but was cheerful and a hard worker. The other rider was a slight man of thirty, a native of Tennessee and a veteran of the Confederate Army. His name was Smoky Jacks, and he was the guide for the outfit.

  The first week of the drive, Jacks had given them the history of the trail they were on. “This here is called the Goodnight-Loving Trail,” he said as he squatted by the fire, drinking the bitter black coffee. “Charlie Goodnight and a hairpin named Oliver Loving decided to go around the Comanche country over in north Texas. Everybody said they’d never make it, but in ’66 they drove two thousand head the way we’re goin’. ’Course, there’s one stretch ’bout eighty miles with jist about no water—but I’d rather go thirsty than entertain a bunch of them Comanches.”

  Smoky Jacks’ stories of Indians made Hope nervous, but they saw none in New Mexico, and now that they were fairly close to Cheyenne territory, it seemed unlikely they would have any problems.

  Hope lay back, growing sleepy in the sun, but soon rose and made her way back to the camp. Og was looking off into the distance and shouted, “Here they come.”

  A tiny spiral of dust rose from the south, and two hours later Hope could make out the herd clearly. Her husband was riding point, as was his custom, trailed by the herd, which were lowing and bawling as they followed. Zane was on the right flank and Smoky Jacks on the left, leaving Randy Duggins on drag—a job they all hated, for it meant eating the dust of the herd all day. Malloy led the cattle to the river, where they began to drink thirstily. He came riding into camp with Jacks, and the two men set about eating at once. “We made good time today,” Willis said. “How much farther we got to go, Smoky?”

  Jacks deposited a huge hunk of apple pie in his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. “Mebby two, three weeks. Say, this here is good pie. I bet you made this Miz Malloy.” He glanced at the cook slyly, adding, “Ozzie there, we can use his pies to shoe the horses with if we run short.” Og glared at him but said nothing.

  “I want to make better time than that, Jacks.” The words were brusk, and Malloy made them sound insulting, as if the cowboy were somehow failing at his job. The big man had been excited and genial at the beginning of the drive, but as the days had passed, he’d grown surly, speaking only in clipped, angry phrases. He had treated his horses savagely and had been so brutally short with Zane and Cody that both boys dreaded him.

  Jacks drew the makings of a cigarette from his vest, rolled one with an easy motion, then said softly, “These critters can’t fly, Boss. They gotta take it one step at a time—and there’s just so many steps to Cheyenne.”

  Malloy threw his head back and glared at the small puncher. “I thought you was a trail boss, Jacks! You ain’t showed me much!” He got up and threw his coffee into the fire, making a sizzling sound. “Soon as you eat, go back and send them boys over to eat. Don’t let them cows stray, you hear?”

  Smoky Jacks’ eyes were half-shut in a sleepy expression. He said in the softest of voices, “I hear ya.” He rose, nodded to Hope, then mounted his horse and rode toward where the herd was drinking.

  “Willis, I think we’ve done pretty good,” Amos said. “Not lost any cattle and we’re right on the schedule you set.”

  “No thanks to you, old man,” Malloy grunted. He had been primed for trouble with Jacks, and when it hadn’t come, he was edgy. “You don’t do nothin’ but eat and sleep in thet wagon.”

  Hope interrupted quickly. “Pa’s not well. You know that, Willis.”

  He moved toward her, grabbed her arm with a grip that made her wince, then pulled her away from the fire. “Git in the wagon, woman. I’m takin’ the midnight shift, so it’s time for bed.”

  Amos looked away as the burly man half dragged Hope toward the supply wagon. Ozzie Og was silent as usual. Amos slowly rose and walked off down the river. When he came back nearly an hour later, he unrolled his bedroll but didn’t get into it. Zane and Cody were crouched around the fire, and Amos listened to them talking. As usual, Cody was sitting with Buck’s head nudging him.

  Finally they rolled into their blankets and were asleep at once. Amos and Og went to bed, too. At midnight, Malloy roused Zane, and the two of them went out to relieve Jacks and Duggins. It was not a good system, for none of them ever had a full night’s sleep, but it was the best they could do with such a small crew.

  Amos awoke to the sound of Malloy’s angry voice. Climbing out of his bedroll, he saw young Duggins getting up from the ground, with Willis Malloy standing over him, cursing. Hope stood to one side, pleading with Willis, her face pale. “He didn’t do a thing! We were just talking!” Meanwhile, Smoky Jacks was silently emerging from his bedroll like a cat stalking its prey. He slipped his gunbelt on and came to his feet as Malloy struck Duggins again, a fearful blow that drove the rider’s head back and knocked him flat. The young man rolled helplessly, blood streaming down his face.

  “I’ll teach you to fool around with my wife!” Malloy bellowed, a gray pleasure in his brutal face. He reached down and yanked Duggins to his feet as though he were a child, then struck him in the stomach with a massive fist. Duggins doubled over, and Malloy knocked him to the ground again with a blow to the jaw.

  Hope screamed, “Willis! He wasn’t—!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Malloy shouted, “or you’ll get some of what I’m gonna give him.”

  He lifted his boot to kick the helpless man, but at that moment, Smoky Jacks said, “Hold it right there, Malloy!”

  Malloy glanced up to see the small puncher come to stand beside Duggins. His eyes were half closed, and his arms were lax at his side. “That’ll be about enough of that.”

  Malloy swelled with rage. “As soon as I kick him to pieces, I’ll have some fun with you, Jacks!” He drew his boot back but never finished the motion.

  Smoky Jacks had drawn the .44 so quickly that Malloy froze, his eyes full of unbelief. “You kick that boy one more time,” Jacks warned, “and it’ll be the last mistake you ever make.”

  Malloy was wearing a gun too, and he blurted out, “Put that gun up! Give a man an even chance.”

  “Anything to oblige.” Jacks dropped the revolver into his holster and stood there, relaxed as if he were loafing. His eyes looked sleepy, but there was a readiness in his slight frame and a small smile on his lips that made Malloy hold himself very still.

  Finally Malloy
licked his lips, then muttered, “A man’s got a right to fight for his wife, ain’t he?” Malloy was not a cowardly man, but there was something dangerous in the small puncher that made him back down. “All right,” he grumbled, “we got cattle to drive.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Malloy,” Jacks said. “I’m of a mind to walk off and leave you, and I don’t reckon Randy here will stay. You pay him off for the full drive, and I’ll finish the trip. You can either hire another hand—or do Duggins’ work yourself. Don’t matter to me. I was lookin’ for a job when I found this one.”

  Malloy wanted to curse the man and run him out of camp, but he had enough shrewdness to say, “I’ll hire a man, Jacks.”

  Smoky studied him, then bent and looked at the fallen cowboy. “Amos, let’s clean this boy up.”

  A few minutes later, as Duggins rested against a wagon wheel, his head still reeling from the blows, Malloy strode over and thrust a fistful of money in his face. “That’s full pay for the drive.” Without another word, he turned and walked away.

  Amos asked, “Think you can make it back to Denver by yourself, Randy?”

  “Sure. I’ll be okay.” Randy slowly gathered his things, mounted his horse, and paused long enough to say, “Miz Malloy—I’m real sorry!”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Randy. God bless you!”

  The next day nothing was said about the incident. Malloy sent them all ahead, while he rode back to Denver and hired a thickset puncher named Fred Gibson to finish the drive.

  Ozzie came sidling up to Jacks that night, asking, “Smoky, would you’ve shot ’im?”

  Smoky studied the cook’s face, then said, “Sure would, Ozzie. And it would have been a pleasure!”

  Og glanced over at Hope, then said, “He’s likely to take it out on her.”

  “Nothin’ I can do about that. I can fumigate a fellow for kickin’ my partner when he’s down—but what goes on between a husband and a wife, that’s where I count myself out!”