“Papa?” Thomas pulled back as if struck in the face. “Never. You, sir, do not know my father. He was a man of high moral standing and of kind temperament to all he ever encountered.”
I stifled a snort, turned away to hide the mask of incredulity that had crawled over my face.
Thomas continued droning on in his puffed-up way. “You will have to travel far before you will find someone who may have an unkind word to say about my papa. And even then, I would doubt their veracity.”
Again, I struggled to suppress snorts of derision, turned them into coughs and gagging sounds—not far from how I felt.
“Get yourself a cup of water, Roamer. Get me one, too, whilst you’re at it.” Jack stretched back in his seat and yawned, a smile wide on his face. He was enjoying the proceedings.
“Legally speaking, I don’t have much of a leg to stand on,” said Scribley. “But I’ll not have such people living next to me. Especially not when I should lawfully be allowed to buy it back. I have plans for that land, better plans than those rascals would have.”
“You could wait them out,” said Jack. “Give them a month, then make ’em an offer.”
“No,” said Scribley, shaking his head. “People like that are never satisfied with an offer. They will want more and more. And the biggest fear I have is that somehow they might find someone who would meet their extortionist demands.”
No one said anything, then Scribley splashed another round into all our glasses. “Besides,” he said, sipping his. “I still have hopes of handing off this ranch to my own children one day.”
“You married?” said Jack, looking around the house as if he expected to see a wife and children pop out of the dark corners and shout, “Ta-da!”
“No . . . no.” Scribley looked a pinch red in the face. It was obvious he’d said something he regretted. Or it could have been nothing more than the stove he’d hotted up again, or the cognac. More than likely, though, it was the admittance he’d made to us, three strangers in his home.
“I am an older fellow, I recognize that and admit it. But I still have hopes of luring a young woman out here under entirely honest terms with an eye toward her becoming my bride. When I pass on I would like to know there will be other Scribleys tending the land, this place, long after I have gone. Yes, a good, hardworking woman from honest stock. Perhaps she won’t have much of her own, but won’t mind being saddled with an old man who can still”—he sipped his drink—“still, ah . . .”
“Garden at night,” said Jack, straight-faced and nodding.
“Yes, yes, that is precisely what I mean.”
There was silence once more while we all sipped and pretended what we’d heard was not awkward. Well, maybe not for the two older gents. They seemed in quiet agreement. As for me, Scribley’s admittance went a long way toward helping me regard him in a more kindly fashion. It seemed he was human after all.
He interrupted the quiet, addressing Thomas once more. “Son, if you can get that deed back into your own hands, that shows you’re the rightful owner, then, regarding my initial offer I made to my old friend, Abraham Rawlins, I’ll honor it and extend it to you. On the other hand, should you want to take it over and ranch it yourself, why I . . . I won’t blame you, of course. Though I hope you will consider my offer in all seriousness.
“I will make no effort to disguise my lust for that property, as should be well apparent to you by now, young man. I dream of owning it once more, have for nearly ten years. I’ve sent a flurry of letters all over the map in an effort to determine the land’s status. Alas, no family members of Rawlins gave me the time of day. Now, that is neither here nor there. At least now I know more than I did yesterday and for these past years.”
Thomas said nothing, but his eyes were clear, not skittery and unfocused as they had been. The opportunist in him had taken it all in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jack slipped out the front door. I gave him a minute, then followed and found him standing on the porch overlooking the dark dooryard. A breeze worked its way through the tops of the ponderosas, then moved on.
“You know we don’t owe this fella, don’t you? We got what we came for, saved the boy.”
I said nothing yet. I knew he wasn’t done.
“When did you get to be a big softy, anyway? Since when are other people’s problems your problems?”
By his tone Jack was still festering about the near miss with the lynching. I did not disagree. “You having second thoughts about what you said in there?”
“I ain’t one to back away from much, especially a situation such as this. It reeks like a month-old grizz-kill carcass.”
“But?”
He sighed. “It’s been a long week, Roamer. I am frazzled. I been rode hard and denied my oats. Don’t like to admit it, but there it is.”
“I understand, Jack. I really do. But I can’t leave Scribley with those murderous bastards so close. Besides, they still have our gear. And you saw what they did to my books. To me, that alone is worth running them aground.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder. For such a solid fellow, he felt thinner, older. Odd how a rum run will do that to a person. “I respect your opinion no matter what you choose, Jack. Do what you need to.”
Quick as a startled cat, Maple Jack whipped his mangy maw around and poked me in the chest with a steel rod of a finger, a sure sign I’d stepped in something I should have avoided.
“Respect my opinion? Oh, Lordy, you worry me, boy. You really got me concerned—I got to tag along on this harebrained plan to make sure you don’t get yourself kilt! Any softer and you’ll need a dress and fancy parasol. Respect, I ain’t never heard the like.”
I smiled in the dark, feeling no need to take offense to his tirade. I had given him the excuse he needed to back away from that comment about being frazzled. I knew he’d wished he’d not given voice to it, even if it was the truth.
If we made it through the next couple of days, I vowed to make certain Maple Jack had a chance to ease up, put his feet up, and maybe whoop up at a settlement or town somewhere along the trail.
Scribley sighed and shook his head when I told him we would be heading back to the ranch the next day. “Provided you let us bunk in the stable for the night. We’re tuckered.”
“Son, I don’t know you or that youngster, Thomas, nor your friend, Maple Jack, but I can tell you I won’t think ill should you want to move on. This is not your tussle. I’ll get the boy’s deed back and hand it over, rest assured. I shoot straight in all my dealings, ask my men.”
“You’re dead wrong, Mister Scribley. It’s more our tussle than anyone else’s.” Before he could protest I pushed on. “Besides, it’s not about the deed so much, Scribley. As Jack said earlier, those bastards have caused us each no amount of trouble. They shot me, left me for dead, and stole my gear. They burned Jack’s cabin and stole his goods. And one of their confederates left a girl dead. We did for him, but it’s been a hard business. So if you’ll excuse me for saying so, this deal is more our business than it is yours.”
I dragged a paw down my stubbled jaw and kept on. “And what’s more, we’ll be the ones riding ramrod on it. If you and your men care to throw in, I won’t say no to the help. Only thing is . . .” I leaned in and lowered my voice, hoping Thomas wouldn’t hear me. “I’d as soon Thomas not be mixed up in this. He’s no gun hand and I don’t want him hurt. Maybe he could wait us out here.”
Before Scribley could reply, Thomas shoved back from the table. “See here, Scorfano. I heard that and I am quite capable of taking care of myself. There is no reason to whisper in the shadows about me as if I were a child to be toddled off to bed. No, sir, I will not tolerate it. I am part of this venture. Indeed, I am the reason we are here in the first place.”
“Well, thank you, laddie, for owning up to it. ’Bout time, too,” said Jack, coming in from out of doors.
The rancher said nothing, eyed us each in turn, then nodded his head and offered us comfortable accommod
ation for the night under his roof. Despite Scribley’s protests and offers of ticking mattresses and spare rooms, Jack and I kindly refused, preferring to bunk in the stable. I’ve spent far too many nights camped with Tiny Boy to be comfortable in a house. And though Jack had a cabin—used to, anyway—he only slept indoors when freezing temperatures and deep drifts of snow made dozing by the campfire out front of his place an uncomfortable labor.
As for Thomas, he readily accepted Scribley’s offer. This did not surprise me, and in truth I was relieved. It would keep the youth safe and away from me. I was still far too angry with him to spend the night listening to him whine about a sore backside.
“First light I’ll have breakfast rattling. All my men come in of a morning and we start the day here at the big table. I find it to be an efficient way to tally the day’s needs.”
Not long after we’d set down to the evening’s meal, Scribley told us he’d ordered his men to put our beasts up in the barn, rub them down, feed them. I had gone to check on the situation, to be certain, but all had appeared as Scribley said.
So now, with the help of a lantern supplied by the rancher, we made our way to the barn. It didn’t take long to find our beasts. A thorough perusal convinced us they had been treated much the same as we had—rubbed down, fed oats and sweet-grass hay, and put up in fine stalls. Our gear was stacked neatly and unmolested, and our tack set on nearby racks.
We bedded down outside the stalls. Despite the creeping cold of night in high country, we were snug and warm in our blankets. We each laid a few spare saddle blankets on top of us, nested deep in ample piles of clean hay, and set to sawing logs right away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I have no idea how he does it, but Maple Jack can be dead to the world tired and scrape up but an hour or two of deep slumber. Then he’ll snap awake before dawn as if kicked in the seat, every single morning. On my own, I will rise when I hear morning sounds—birds fidgeting and chattering at each other in the trees, squirrels cursing everything under the sun, other rodents rummaging in the leaves. Often, Tiny Boy, hobbled close by, will make his way over and nudge me if he feels he’s not been attended to in a timely manner.
“Boy. Hey, Roamer.” It was Jack, toeing me with his moccasins. Times like those I was thankful he had a lifelong aversion to hard-sole boots.
“Get up, and I won’t say it again. I see light through the windows at the house, and if that rich ranchin’ bastard can cook up a breakfast spread as good as his stew, we’re in luck.” For emphasis he smacked his hands together and let his paunch growl away as if he’d trapped another starving bear cub in there.
We made our way back to the house, much refreshed after a decent sleep in a comfortable spot. We clumped up the steps following a couple of hands we hadn’t met before. A few more came after us. Not a one seemed interested in us or surprised at our appearance around the breakfast spread.
And what a spread it was: stacks of big, steaming flapjacks, thick smoked bacon fried enough to draw out the flavor, a mess of golden eggs, plenty of hot coffee, thick and strong, and even a pot full of porridge. Plus sugar, butter, salt, and pepper. I wasn’t about to complain.
Mr. Scribley had help at the stove and in a back room I took to be part of the kitchen. A young cowhand I’d seen eyeing us from off by the barns when we rode in the day before now wore a soiled white apron and a red, smiling face as he dished up good food.
I don’t know when he did it, but it appeared that Scribley had already told his men about us, for they were a jovial bunch and included us in their conversation. Scribley nodded toward the young aproned man. “That’s Jasper. He’s learning his way around the kitchen. We all take turns at feeding time.”
“Good way to be,” said Jack, between bites of butter-dripping flapjack. “A man who can’t cook ain’t got no business eating in the first place,” he said, to a chorus of nods and grunts of approval. Nobody said much as they were all busy eating. A feed like that every day would go a long way to convincing me I needed to bed down at that ranch for the winter.
Thomas, who had shown up late to the breakfast table, still in a nightshirt, likely loaned from Scribley, and looking as though he wanted more hours of sleep, took a seat at the end of one side of the long table. He nursed on a cup of coffee and seemed unaware of the men or the discussion going on around him. I thought not for the last time what a strange young fellow he was. Raised rich is how Jack had described the youth’s malady. I agreed with that simple assessment.
The men at the table were too polite to comment on their boss’s houseguest, though I did spy a couple of them suppressing smiles and shaking their heads. For his part, Thomas remained oblivious and aloof.
We weren’t halfway through the meal when boots hammered up the steps. None of us had time enough to do much else than turn our heads, coffee cups in hand, when the door slammed inward.
“Riley, what is the meaning—”
But Scribley’s rage was cut off by the newcomer. “Sir,” the man breathed hard, red-faced, and yanked his hat off, torturing the brim as he stood in the open door. “Hard cases rode up in the night. Camped in plain view in the meadow on the far side of the old Rawlins cabin. Likely they came in on the trail you all took.” He nodded toward me and Jack.
“How many?” said Scribley, squawking his chair back on the wood floor as he stood.
“We counted five, sir.”
“Is Dibbs still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well . . .” Scribley rubbed his chin. “He’s a hotheaded youngster. You’d best ride back there and sit tight. Don’t let Dibbs’s fiery ways get you in trouble. Do you understand? Do not let those newcomers know you are there.”
“Yes, sir.” Riley turned to go, but Scribley called him back in.
“Here.” He splashed cream in a steaming mug of coffee. “Drink this, warm your insides. Jasper, fix up a sack of food and a canteen of hot water. On second thought, Riley, you stay here, warm up. Neufeld, you’re older, Dibbs will listen to you. You ride on out and keep a lid on the situation.”
A big blond man stood, nodded, and pulled on his coat.
“We’ll all be along soon.”
“Yah, yah, yes, sir,” said Neufeld. He headed on out the door, stomped down the steps, and was gone.
“Well, that’s a new twist in the rope,” said Jack, still managing to tuck away bites of bacon and slurps of coffee while everyone else had been listening to Scribley. Jack isn’t one to fritter away an opportunity.
True to the rancher’s word, we didn’t waste time in the warmth of the dining room. As we filed out the door and headed to the barn, I regretted not being able to tuck into a third helping of flapjacks and coffee. It takes a lot of fuel to fill my firebox, but a good breakfast will go a long way to setting me up for the day.
As we left the room, I was relieved to see that Thomas remained at the table, slowly sipping his coffee and musing on thoughts I am glad to not know.
The morning sun peeked over the ridge behind us, brightening the scrim of frost covering everything. The breaths of all the men plumed, and most rubbed their arms and hands together. Few of them had pulled on coats, hats, and gloves to eat breakfast. The ranch hands split off, hustling their way back to the bunkhouse, a long, low building with smoke puffing out a tidy capped pipe in the center of the shake roof.
Scribley shouted to his men. “Be ready to ride in five minutes.” He stayed with me and Jack as we walked to the barn.
As usual, Jack gave voice to my thoughts. “You suppose those newcomers are hired guns of those two in the cabin? Might be they’re only passing through.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said.
“Yep,” said the rancher. “We’ll ride in on them and demand answers.”
I tamped down a groan. “I was thinking more of spying on them, get a measure of them first.”
Scribley stopped, his hand on the handle of the barn door, and looked at me. There was that flin
t-edge gaze again, for a moment. “Five isn’t a whole lot of men,” he said.
“True,” I said, “unless they’re experienced gun hands. Then they’re worth two, maybe three times their number.”
Maple Jack nodded his agreement. “No offense, Scribley, but me and the boy here, we got experience dealing with hard cases of all sorts. Not saying you don’t, but I been a lawman, a scout, a go-between among whites and tribes. Hell, I’ve held all manner of dicey occupations, and I’m still alive to talk about it. Roamer here is as good as any man I’ve come up against. You can’t prevent us from getting our gear back from those two, nor exacting our revenge from them, neither. So you might as well get used to the notion that we’re riding point, and you might as well listen to what we have to say, too.”
The creases on the rancher’s hard-lined face deepened, then he nodded. “It could be you are right. We’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. But they’re going to have to work hard to convince me they don’t have evil intent.”
“No mistake, I’m with you,” said Jack. “Now let’s get on down there and see what’s what.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We were still a half mile from the northern edge of the ranch when we heard the crack of a single gunshot. It pinched off any hopes we had of the five encamped men turning out to be mere travelers. Scribley halted and held up a hand. We all reined up. The men stiffened in their saddles, heads angled, ears cocked. We didn’t have long to wait.
Three more shots sounded on the heels of the first. So much for a quick and quiet takeover of the ranch. As we sat there in the roadway, with Scribley’s hand still raised, the sound of sudden hooves pounded along the road to our backs. We all spun in our saddles, hands snatching at weapons. It was Thomas, smiling and looking for all the world as if he were heading out on a picnic. The men breathed easier.
Except for me. I was steamed and red-faced. Might be why he hung to the back of the line, well away from me. I’d left him strong instruction to stay put, as had Scribley, by way of offering free run of the house while we were gone. It hadn’t mattered what anyone said to Thomas. He behaved as he wanted, as he always did.
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