We set up camp, benefactors of the logs someone had already dragged into place to either side of the fire spot. Then we availed ourselves of the remaining firewood the previous party had gathered. In no time we had the horse and mule settled, watered, and fed, their quiet munching sounds soothing in the day’s waning light.
Jack managed to whip up a batch of johnnycake from cornmeal in the man’s bag. Fried alongside them was a goodly share of thick slices of bacon carved from a muslin-wrapped slab, also from the man’s stores. The sweet, smoky meat smelled too good for words and I seriously considered peeling that bacon right out of the pan and eating it half-cooked.
All in all, ridding the world of that killer and putting his food stocks to good use helped take the corroded edge off the fact that we had taken a man’s life, or at least caused it to happen, even if it had been a matter of self-defense.
I tended the fire and readied the coffee. We had topped up our canteens twice along the way that day—and slaked our thirst at the same time. The horse and the mule had done the same.
“It’s plain we’re on their trail, and likely this was their camp,” I said, wiping my mouth as demurely as I could on my buckskin shirt’s grimy cuff. “I’ve told you my thoughts, but what do you reckon their motives are?”
“Well, as you say, it’s that ranch deed, ain’t it? I was a betting man and had the facts we do, that’d be my wager.”
I nodded in agreement. “I keep mulling this over and can’t parse any answers.”
Jack shrugged, poured a liberal dose of whiskey in his coffee. “Maybe there ain’t any.”
“What if Thomas has already become useless to them? Seems logical if we assume the deed is what they’re after.”
Jack blew across the top of his tin cup. I kept quiet, knowing he was giving it thought, too. I welcomed his notions. He might be a hardscrabble sort, but the man’s mind is sharp as a honed scythe.
“It don’t make no sense, though, does it?” He eyed me over the crackling little fire. “Just a deed? Got to be more to it than that. Course, if it was only the deed they was after, why keep him around? That Thomas is a squirly sort, and not likely good for much. As far as I can tell the man is useless. What good would he be to them?”
I must have pulled a pained face, because Jack set down his cup.
“What’s wrong, boy? That wound open again? I can make a poultice.”
“No, keep your seat, Jack. I’m fine. Relatively speaking, anyway.”
“Oh, ho, there you go with your highfalutin’ lingo again, I guess you’re healing.”
I had to chuckle at that. If anything, Jack uses more two-dollar words—or at least tries to—than any man I’ve ever met. But if I toss one in now and again, you can be sure he’ll pounce on it like a cur on a meat scrap.
“I hope we aren’t too late.”
“Too late for what? To save that whelp? We’ll do what we can, but hang fire, why are you so worried about him, anyway? Brother or no, it ain’t like you owe him. Why, from what you told me the whole clan has done little more than scrub the bottoms of their boots on you!”
I fidgeted, I hemmed, and I hawed. And I couldn’t think of a reason to disagree.
Jack leaned forward and squinted like he does when he has something important to say. “Even with all that, you’ve a soft spot for him, eh?”
“I guess I do.” My tone was one of defeat, a hoarse croak.
“Good. That’s one of the reasons I like you, Roamer. Got goodness in your heart. Too many of us mountain folk who come out here by nature and inclination—how’s that for a word?—we sort of dry up inside, forget that just because we want to leave something behind don’t mean we can. Nor should we.”
He said that last with a few wags of his empty cup, for emphasis.
“I been thinkin’ on this, boy, and I know we touched on it back when you all were at my place, but . . .”
I knew what he was about to say and leaned my head to one side. He took my meaning, but Maple Jack is nothing if not persistent.
“Now, now, hear me out. Humor an old man, will you?”
He took his time pouring another cup. The night had turned off chill and I held out my own cup, the sight of that steaming black liquid too tempting to pass up. When they were filled, and suitably topped with drizzles of whiskey, he resumed his chatter.
“As he’s younger than you, that makes you the eldest. The rightful—”
I sighed and shook my head, but he plowed onward.
“Heir.”
I had plenty of answers but none I had the strength to defend—always a concern when “confabulating” with Jack.
“Surely you want your share? A share of what’s yours by birthright?”
I held up a big hand. “No, no I don’t. I disowned them As far as everyone is concerned, me included, I never lived and Thomas is the rightful heir.”
Jack recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “Now your talkin’ loco! Never lived?”
“Not in their eyes, not in their world. They’re better off without me and I am certainly better off without them.”
“Then why are you so concerned about that greenhorn boy?”
I still had no good answer, save for a weak shrug. The shoulder protested with a stab of hot pain. We were quiet. Not far from the fire’s ring I heard the padding and rustling of soft feet, low, numerous. Wolves maybe, likely coyotes.
Harmless, especially in the fall of a plentiful year. We’d come off a robust summer of good rains, and so, fat rodents and fatter predators. They’d go into the winter well fed instead of lean and slavering, a sight I’d seen often enough. More often in humans, though.
“Look, Jack. I have everything I want. Mostly to be shed of them. At least I thought I had that. But now that he’s dropped himself in the midst of my life, and made a mess of it and of yours, too, I have to wrestle with it. Besides”—I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, pinching at the throat—“they took my horse, my gear, and my books.”
Jack nodded, smacked his hands on his knees. “And my lynx hat, the primal bastards!” He stood, knees popping in protest, and ambled off to wet a bush. Over his shoulder he said, “We’d best get a few hours of snorin’ in and done. I’ll take first watch.”
I stood and tossed the last of my coffee on the fire. “All the same to you, Jack, I’ll sit up first.”
He came back, eyebrows pulled tight, but nodded.
I was worked up and figured I’d use the time to puzzle out this un-puzzle-able mess. As I leaned against a close-by knob of granite, it occurred to me I was once again overthinking the situation. It is a trait Jack has accused me of, rightfully, a number of times in the past. It appears I am slow to learn.
The bald facts were plain: The two remaining crooks had absconded with a greenhorn, intent on thieving something of value from him. Along the way they stole from me and from my best friend, then left us to die. A third number of their ilk killed a fourth number of their ilk, then we did for him. They had to be made to pay, one way or another.
I blew out a plume of frosty breath, barely visible in the dark. I had decided nothing, but knew if we dogged on, all would become clear in time. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I admit I spent my time on watch only half paying attention to the sounds and smells of the night around me. Something told me all we had to fear were our own overactive imaginations, and by that I meant my own. Thomas and his captors were far ahead, and likely thinking they were shed of us. And why wouldn’t they?
It was Thomas I thought of as I did my best to keep from cramping up. It was early in the nippy season, but I already missed the warmth of a July evening in high country.
If he was still alive, Thomas was in need of someone to guide him, some figure to help point him in the right directions, down paths that would lead to fruitful undertakings and not criminal endeavors—or worse. He certainly didn’t get it from the woman who had birthed us. And he damned sure di
dn’t get it from our father.
That man was born to filch women’s hearts, their jewels, and then their family fortunes. Why else had a lowborn member of Italian aristocracy been shunted off to America, no contact ever having been initiated with his own family back in his homeland?
Only one reason was plausible, only one was possible, knowing what I did of the man. He had run for his life, likely chased. (How many half siblings do I have in the world?) Too bad whoever he had wronged hadn’t had the nerve or wherewithal to complete the task and kill him before he infected yet another bevy of hopeless souls on these shores.
At least in the case of my own mother, and I use the term in the most tenuous, threadlike connection imaginable, the reason for his attraction to her was obvious. She came from money. As old as old money could be in the United States, anyway. Her father’s father had done everything a good Southern gentleman ought so he might amass his fortune, building up a sprawling cotton plantation on the backs and bellies, weary feet, hands, and souls of slaves, which he also bought and sold for much profit.
By the time dear old Papa came along, the family’s status as a well-heeled nest of money-grubbing gentry was lodged firm and unmoving in the hard-packed Southern soil.
Yet who would have thought that a single, handsome, dashing, chivalrous-seeming Italian with a dubious pedigree and a hunger for finery, a thirst for good wine, and a lust for pretty women, namely the singular and perky young nose-in-the-air offspring of the Old General himself, could bring the entire affair to a penniless, screeching stop?
The hours of my watch passed slowly and yet I let Jack sleep on. I was in no mood to wake him. The man, no matter his bluster, is much older than I, though how old, I know not.
I wished to keep to myself for a few more minutes. I had dug far too deep into my own past, something I had not allowed myself to do in many years. I found it a painful task but one that somehow needed doing.
Thomas, once more in my life, unbidden and unwanted as he was there, had done this to me. I owed it to myself to sort out my intentions regarding the young fool well before I found him. Despite my enmity toward him, there was the fact that he was my brother, bloodwise the single person on earth I was closest to.
Thus I spent my night, in the dark, vaguely aware of various scurryings and scratchings and sliding sounds only ever heard in the dark by creatures whose lives are lived while others slept. I realized I could not truly discount my feelings for the boy.
Unearthing a reservoir of reluctance I had spent years covering over, I could not say with any amount of finality I did not wish to know him. That I did not wish to spend my life without staying in contact with him. I felt that way much of the time, but while there was still a sliver of uncertainty, I had to explore it. I had to make certain I was better off as the loner known as Roamer. A knight without a cause, questing for . . . what? Nothing?
All of this thinking might well be moot should we come upon them too late. There was every reason to think those two thieves had already killed Thomas. The thought tightened in my gut like a cold fist of stone. We had to make it to this fabled, deeded ranch soon. How far was it? I had no idea, only a vague memory of a vague map in my mind, what little I recalled from my brief glimpses at Thomas’s fancy papers.
Lack of sleep can cause a man to think all manner of odd thoughts. And that night I was no exception. I roused from a light doze some time later by Jack’s curses and growls. He is prone to being surly of a morning, and his efforts on that predawn day were doubled and directed at me for letting him sleep the night through. It must have done him good for he was in rare, fiery form.
“Were you a preacher in a former life, Jack?” I said, stretching and easing mobility into my stiff, cold joints. Oddly enough I felt pretty good for someone who had slept but half the night, and that half leaned against a cold boulder.
“What if we’d been attacked in the night? Eh? You . . . whelp!” He stomped off toward his favorite bush, grumbling the entire time.
I took pity on him and tried not to smirk while I stirred up the ashes and got a pot of coffee bubbling. By the time day’s light fingered its way over the Bitterroots to our right, we were loading the last of the gear onto our rested steeds. To our relief, the bay was a calmer animal that day.
“I rode the starch out of her,” said Jack, nodding in approval of himself, even though I doubted he’d had much do with it. It was decided I would continue to ride the mule and Jack the bay.
“In case she decides to kick up a fuss again,” said Jack.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We came upon the ranch later the following day. Save for an unidentifiable feeling of something about to happen—that neck-prickling sensation common to most folks at one time or another—the day had been uneventful. Then it all changed.
The trail we followed skinnied to little more than a footpath winding between fallen trees, copses of living trees, and all manner of tumbledown boulders. They were remnants of mighty earthly upheavals from long ago. A vague concern skittering along the edges of my mind began to present itself.
“Jack, how do you suppose the ranches we know to exist up north here in the Pascal Valley region get their goods?”
“Why, that road up north, yonder through the mountain pass would be one way, though it is treacherous in winter.”
“Or damn near impassable.”
“Yeah, but that route is handsome.” Jack shook his head, smiling at the picture in his mind. “You take that trail through Pend d’Oreille land, you got yourself some pretty scenery.”
“Yep, it’s been a while since I’ve been through there. Strikes me it’d be a good way to cut on over to Montana then strike north to Salish Lake.”
“Yep. Course I reckon the ranchers would do most of their traveling and trading to the west, over Walla Walla way.”
I glanced at Jack. He rubbed his chin, raking his fingers through his oddly trimmed beard. He’d done his best to cut out the singed bits, but he wasn’t too interested in his looks, at least not until he was set to visit with his “winter woman,” as he called her. For now, he didn’t seem to care that his beard and hair were a lopsided affair all around.
“But what you’re wondering about, I’ll bet, is the same notion I been cogitatin’ on—this here trail ain’t amountin’ to a piss hole in the snow. That means we’re likely coming in through the back door, so to speak. We keep on like this and we’ll run out of trail before we run out of words to describe how poor it is.”
As he spoke, still riding behind me a few yards, we reached the top of a rise and rounded a boulder that looked to be as big as Jack’s old cabin. There was barely enough room for us to walk by.
I was set to dismount when I held up a hand. “Trail’s ended, Jack,” I said in a low voice.
“Well now, how do you like them apples?”
He was prepared to launch into a full-bore tirade of words, I am sure of it, but I shushed him. I’d have to explain the shushing pretty quickly or he’d get riled over that, too. Jack was in a touchy mood that day. Most days, if truth be told.
I lowered myself until I stood on the ground, and laid a hand on the mule’s side to keep him from fidgeting. It’s not a big concern with Mossback, but it doesn’t pay to take chances when a man saw what I’d seen. I beckoned Jack with a finger. He judged that we needed to be quiet.
He led the horse forward, tied her off to a ponderosa close by the path, and walked up, trying to see around me. Not an easy task.
“What’s cookin’?”
I stepped aside. “Take a peek.”
He did and his eyebrows rose as expected. “No kidding. That the place?”
“I can’t be certain. Might be a different one. You know there are quite a few ranches tucked away in river valleys over this way.”
“We might as well approach.” Jack didn’t lift his eyes from the place, but kept whispering. “But if it is the one, we can’t just up and ride on in and expect them to serve up tea and fancy ca
kes. We’d better do it quiet-like, no fuss.”
“And if it isn’t Thomas’s ranch?”
“Then no harm done. We’ll say we’re weary rovers who got ourselves lost, maybe ask a few questions.”
We’d been looking down the trail toward a perfect-looking little valley, a scattering of ranch buildings and corrals. I saw no sign of cattle, nor of humans. Something told me it was the place. “Abandoned?”
Jack grunted and continued eyeballing the scene. “Nope,” he said, nodding toward the ranch house, up by the tree line.
Now I saw it, too. Gray smoke wisping from the chimney.
The house itself was a tidy, skinned-log affair with a long, low porch. We angled further around the rock and I saw four glass windows along the front of the house, two on the side. They all leached an oil lamp’s low, warm glow outward into the darkening afternoon.
Genuine glass windows are a rarity out here, though from the looks of this place, it appeared whoever had built it were not concerned with money. The house was backed up to a dense, darkening forest of pine that marched up the sloping foothills that led to higher peaks far above and beyond.
In the meadow below the house a whole lot of care had been taken to construct chutes and gates, and I counted four corrals. They hadn’t been used this season, though. Nothing sadder than a property that has spent seasons unused. Nature doesn’t much care, it continues on sprouting thin, tall grasses where the corrals and lanes would have been pounded to dust from stomping, milling hooves of horses and beeves.
The place looked well built, perhaps had been there a decade or more. So how did Thomas’s father, ahem, come by the property?
“Hey, Roamer.” Jack nudged my arm. “We best figure out a plan. If tonight’s the night, then I need food and coffee, not in that order. We best find a place to hide these critters, too.”
“You get a fire going back along the trail a ways behind those rocks, that way they won’t see it. We have to get down there and scout.”
“You gone squirly in the head? All them windows in that fancy log shack, they’d spy us coming, going, and in between.”
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