In the Shadow of the Hills

by Madeline Baker

  He’d never see eighteen.

  He stared at me through pain-glazed brown eyes. “You really are as fast as they say,” he mumbled thickly.

  I thumbed a trio of fresh cartridges into my Colt. “Yeah. What made you try it? You don’t look much like a bounty hunter.”

  “Waco recognized you from a warrant in the Sheriff’s office. He said taking you down would be easy, a quick way for us to make two hundred bucks.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You knew we were there all the time, didn’t you? How’d you know?”

  “Next time you set out to kill a man, don’t waste so much time talkin’ about it.”

  The boy moaned low in his throat. “Yeah,” he said, panting heavily. “Next time. Geez, it hurts. You got a smoke?”

  “Sure, kid.”

  Dropping my .44 into my holster, I rolled the kid a cigarette, lit it, and placed it between his thin, colorless lips. He took a deep drag, choked, and coughed up a mouthful of blood-flecked saliva.

  “I’m sorry, mom,” he whispered pathetically. The cigarette fell from his lips and he toppled sideways, his hands still clutching the killing wound in his belly.

  Swearing softly, I ground out the cigarette butt. I was still muttering obscenities when I went looking for their horses. I found them tethered in a grove of saplings; a lop-eared mule and a slat-sided bay mare.

  “A lousy two hundred bucks!” I swore again as I lashed the boy’s body across the back of the mule. “Doesn’t seem like much to die for.”

  I secured Waco’s body to the back of the bay, looped the reins around the saddle horn. A sharp slap on the rump sent the bay running for home, the mule in its wake.

  Saddling my own mount, I scouted another place to finish out the night.

  Sleep was a long time coming.

  * * *

  The year 1873 slid by. I moved aimlessly from place to place, going east when I felt the urge for the finer things of life, though I never went back to New York. There were too many painful memories waiting there; too many people I didn’t want to see.

  And when I got tired of plush hotels and silk sheets, I went west again, back to cheap honky tonk bars and rotgut whiskey. And while both places fed an inner hunger, neither filled my real need, the need to be with my own people. The need to hear the language of my father’s people, to hunker down inside a hide lodge and inhale the smell of wood smoke and sage. I yearned for the sight of the Black Hills, for the sound of the wind soughing through the pines, for the taste of buffalo and chokecherry pudding.

  The longing to see my people again was strong, very strong, and yet, as much as I yearned to ride the high country one more, to talk to my brother, the wolf, I was afraid to go back to the land of my birth. I had been gone a long time, and I was no longer the same person I had been. Would the Cheyenne still be my people? Would they accept the man I had become? Would anyone remember Black Wolf, only child of Sun Seeker? Would their ways disgust me now that I was accustomed to living in the white man’s world?

  I didn’t know and, deep down, I was afraid to find out.

  Chapter 13

  Spring, 1874, found me sitting in a saloon in New Mexico, idly playing one game of Solitaire after another. The joint was dark and quiet, with nothing but the flies and the slap of my cards to break the stillness. The barkeep stood behind the bar. He’d been staring out the window, polishing the same glass for ten minutes. Except for an old drunk slumped over a back table, I was the only customer in the place.

  I had just dealt myself a new hand when a stocky, square-jawed man wearing a dark suit and hundred-dollar boots approached my table.

  “I’m looking for John McKenna,” he stated in a deep, gravelly voice. “Might you be him?”

  “I might be,” I allowed, letting my right hand drop below the table to rest on my gun butt. “Why are you looking for him?”

  The man gestured at the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “My name’s Wade. Red Wade. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “No matter.” He ran a rough, work-worn hand through his graying hair. “I run a spread about twenty miles east of here, over in a placed called Blue Valley. I’m running close to ten thousand head, and I just made a deal for ten thousand more.”

  “I don’t work cattle.”

  Wade’s voice turned hard, impatient. “I don’t need a cowhand. A dozen nesters have taken up residence in the south end of my valley. I want them out.”

  “You own that land?”

  “I need that land.”

  “It’s not quite the same thing,” I remarked dryly.

  “It is to me.”

  “And you want me to get rid of them for you?”

  Wade’s smile was cold and empty. “Exactly right! You interested?”

  “Not really.”

  “I can pay you whatever you want.” He sat back in his chair, looking smug. “Just name your price.”

  I didn’t cotton much to his tone, or to the way he just naturally assumed I could be bought if the price was right.

  Slapping a jack of hearts on a queen of spades, I said, “I don’t need your money.”

  He didn’t argue. “I’m a busy man,” he said brusquely. “And it looks like I’m wasting your time, as well as my own.”

  “Sorry.”

  I didn’t give Wade much thought after that. There were men like Red Wade all over the West; greedy, land-hungry bastards who bought what they wanted when they could, and took it by force when all else failed. Men who thought money put them above the law.

  I was sitting at the same table, playing the same game a week later, wondering if maybe I should ride on, when a tall, non-descript man of about forty-five entered the saloon. His gaze darted around the room until he saw me. He quickly looked away; then, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he walked toward me.

  “Mr. McKenna?” His voice was gruff, but not unfriendly.

  “Yeah?”

  He coughed nervously. “Mr. McKenna, my name’s Cooper. Jed Cooper. I, uh, need to talk to you if you’re not too busy.”

  “Do I look busy?” I asked, gesturing at the cards spread out on the table.

  “No. I mean...”

  “Just what is it you want, Cooper?”

  “Me and my wife, we gotta little place out in Blue Valley. It ain’t nothing much to speak of, but it could be something big in a few years. It’s good land, with plenty of water, only there’s this man, Wade, who wants the whole valley to himself...”

  His voice trailed off, and he stared past me.

  “Cooper?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You were saying?”

  “Oh, yes, Wade. He’s been trying to buy us out for the last two years. Last week, he...he killed our boy. Richard was our only child. Then, just last night, he rode up bold as brass and offered me a hundred dollars for my whole spread.”

  Cooper snorted, his grief at his son’s death momentarily swallowed up by his anger. “Shit, Mr. McKenna, our place ain’t much as it stands now, but it’s worth a helluva lot more than that.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you want me to do,” I reminded him, though I knew damn well what he was leading up to.

  “I...uh, that is, me and the wife, we were wondering if maybe you’d help us out.” His words came in a rush now, as if he had to get them out fast before he lost his nerve. “I got three hundred dollars cash saved up to buy stock with. It’s all yours if you’ll help us out. My missus, she loves our place. Our boy, he’s buried there, and she don’t want to leave him. I...I’d like to hang onto it for her, if I could.”

  I thought of a small grave back in New York, then shook the memory away. “What made you come to me? I’ve never done any night riding for anyone.”

  “‘Cause you’re the best! Everybody knows that.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Sure. Why, even out
in Blue Valley, we’ve heard about you. About how you killed Roan Avery and Whitey McGee.”

  “Yeah, I killed ‘em, sure as hell,” I muttered. “And now you want me to kill Wade.” I was angry without knowing why.

  “We’re hoping it won’t come to killin’, but if it does...”

  “You want the best gun on your side,” I said, finishing his thought.

  Cooper nodded, an uncertain smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

  I’d n ever hired out my gun before, and I was in no hurry to start, but there was something about the way Jed Cooper looked at me, as if I was the last hope he had in the world.

  “Your wife a good cook, Cooper?”

  “Yessir,” he replied, looking baffled by the question. “One of the best in the county. Why do you ask?”

  “‘Cause it’s going on supper time, Cooper, that’s why.”

  “You mean you’ll help us?”

  I let out a long sigh. “That’s what I mean. Come on, let’s ride.”

  * * *

  As promised, the Cooper place wasn’t much. Just a ‘dobe shack and a ramshackle barn, both in bad need of a coat of paint. In spite of the fact that the house wasn’t much to look at, it boasted a nice front porch and a swing. An old red cow wandered through the yard, a spotted calf at her heels.

  Chickens scratched in the dirt near the porch. A sow and eight or nine piglets rooted around the side yard. A half-dozen wild-eyed broncs were penned in a large, peeled pole corral. Two or three of them looked like they might make pretty good mounts when they were topped out.

  A pair of red-bone hounds darted out from under the porch as we rode up. Dismounting, we turned our horses loose in a second, smaller corral. Cooper spoke to the dogs, scratching their ears, then led the way up to the house.

  I could see why he wanted to stay. A deep blue stream meandered the length of the valley, its clear water sparkling in the sunlight. Pine and spruce grew heavy on the hills, the grass beneath my feet was rich and green.

  Cooper’s wife met us at the door. Cooper gave her a quick, self-conscious hug and a smile, then turned to me. “Mr. McKenna, this is my wife, Edna. Edna, Mr. McKenna is gonna help us out.”

  I tipped my hat. “Ma’am.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. McKenna.” Her voice was soft, with a hint of a Southern drawl. She tried not to stare at me, or at the gun riding on my hip.

  “Is my being here going to bother you, Mrs. Cooper?”

  Edna Cooper blushed right to the tips of her chestnut colored hair. She looked younger than her husband. I guessed her to be in her mid-thirties, and while she was not a particularly pretty woman, the blush did her credit, pinking her cheeks and putting a sparkle in her brown eyes.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

  “I’m a gunfighter and a half-breed,” I remarked bluntly. “It’s a combination that makes some people nervous, if not downright fidgety.”

  “Well, now that you mention it...”

  “Edna!”

  “It’s all right, Cooper,” I admonished. “Let her talk.”

  “I’ll be frank, Mr. McKenna,” Edna Cooper said boldly. “I’m opposed to Jed’s plan. He probably told you that I love this place, and I do. But I don’t want to stay a minute longer if it means more bloodshed.” She took a deep breath and I could see she was trying not to cry. “I’ve already lost a son. I don’t want to lose Jed, as well.”

  I threw a mildly accusing glance in Cooper’s direction. “I thought you said you and the missus were both interested in hiring me.”

  “Yeah,” Cooper admitted sheepishly. “I guess I did say that, but, well, I was hopin’ she’d come around to my way of thinkin’ when she saw I meant business.” He turned pleading eyes in his wife’s direction. “Please, Edna, it’s the only way. Can’t you see that? “I can’t lick Wade by myself, and I won’t give up this place without a fight. No, by damn, I won’t!”

  They stared at each other for stretched seconds; a man who’d been pushed too far, and a woman who had already lost too much.

  Then Edna Cooper took her husband’s work-worn hand in hers and stepped into the house.

  “Come along, Mr. McKenna,” she said softly. “Supper is almost ready.”

  * * *

  The next few days passed peaceably enough. Cooper rose with the sun to tend his stock and plow his land while his missus did the washing and the ironing and the cooking, and efficiently tended to the thousand and one other chores that made Western women turn old before their time. She was a hell of a woman, Mrs. Cooper. Her house was small and sorely lacking many of life’s finer things, but what she had was quality and reflected loving care. Her house fairly sparkled. The wooden floors were virtually spotless, the single window squeaky-clean. There were always fresh wildflowers or a bit of greenery on the table; a pot of hot coffee waiting on the stove when her husband came home.

  She knew how to make a stranger feel at home, too, though I must admit I felt a little guilt sitting in the shade while the Coopers did all the work. But then, Jed Cooper was buying my iron, not my back.

  Cooper hadn’t lied when he said his wife was a good cook. She set a fine table. And she made the best deep-dish apple pie I’d ever tasted.

  I guess I’d been at the Cooper place three or four days the night I caught Edna Cooper staring at me across the dinner table.

  “Something wrong, ma’am?” I asked.

  “No. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that...” She broke off, her cheeks pinking with embarrassment.

  “Just what?” I prompted curiously.

  “Just that you don’t seem much like a gunfighter. I mean, your table manners are impeccable, and you’re so...so polite. One would almost think you’d been raised in Boston.”

  “New York City.”

  “Really? What happened? I mean, why did you leave the East to come out here and...and...”

  “And?” There was a hard edge in my voice.

  “Edna, that’s enough!” Jed Cooper admonished sharply. He slid a wary glance in my direction. “You’ve no right to pry into the man’s past.”

  “You’re right, Jed,” Edna Cooper said contritely. “I’m sorry, Mr. McKenna. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  I took a deep breath and felt the tension flow out of me. “It’s all right, Mrs. Cooper,” I said. “No offense taken.”

  “I’m glad.” She poured me another cup of coffee, then carried a stack of dirty dishes to the sink.

  Jed Cooper fumbled with his pipe for a few minutes before he said, gruffly, “I’m sorry about that. I told Edna to mind her tongue, but sometimes it gets away with her.”

  “Forget it, Cooper. You can’t blame a woman for being curious about a stranger.”

  “I guess not,” Cooper agreed. He puffed on his pipe. “I’ve been some curious myself.”

  * * *

  I was sitting on the Cooper’s front porch the next morning, just taking life easy, when Red Wade rode up, surrounded by a dozen cowhands. Wade was looking prosperous as hell, all duded up in brown twill pants, a tan shirt, California boots, and a white John B shading his eyes. A red silk kerchief was loosely knotted at his throat.

  If he was surprised to see me at the Cooper place, it didn’t show on his rough-hewn face. He sat easy in the saddle, his hands folded negligently on the pommel, his mouth turned up in a smile that didn’t quite reach the hard flat look in his eyes.

  Rising, I nodded in Wade’s direction. “Mornin’.”

  “What are you doing here, McKenna?” Wade asked, ignoring my greeting.

  “Just earning my keep.”

  “You’re working for Cooper?” Wade asked incredulously. “How much is the old man paying you?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Three hundred dollars!” he exclaimed. “You took three hundred dollars from Cooper when I offered to let you name your own price? Shit, you half-breeds are even dumber than I thought.”

  Disre
garding the barb, I glanced at the men flanking Wade. Most looked like legitimate cowhands, but a few were obviously hired guns. Their profession sat on them like the mark of Cain, and I wondered if I wore the same brand, if my eyes looked as cold and dead as theirs.

  “Three hundred dollars.” Wade shook his head in disbelief. “I just don’t get it.”

  “I see you didn’t have any trouble finding somebody to take you up on your offer,” I remarked dryly. “Several somebodys, in fact.”

  Wade shrugged. “I approached you first because you’ve got a name people recognize, but, hell, these men will be just as well-known one of these days.”

  “That day being the day they bring me down?” I surmised, but Wade just smiled and changed the subject.

  “Cooper here?” he asked.

  “Inside, finishing up his breakfast.”

  “You’d best call him out here.”

  “Call him yourself. And tell your gunny to take his hand away from that iron unless he wants to lose it.”

  “Curly!”

  “Curly?” I eyed Wade’s gunman with real interest. “Not Curly Jack Turner?”

  “Heard of me, huh?” Turned purred, sounding pleased.

  “Heard you killed women and kids,” I answered with a shrug. “What else is there to know?”

  Wade threw an angry glance in my direction. He hadn’t come here for bloodshed, not this time, anyway, and he didn’t like the way I was prodding his right hand man.

  “Curly, back off,” Wade ordered.

  But Curly wasn’t listening. A taut silence fell between us and Wade edged his horse to the left, out of the line of fire.

  Curly’s eyes were cold and yellow, like a coyote’s, and they never left my face. Neither did his hand stray from the smooth ivory butt of the big old Walker Colt hugging his right thigh. He had slender hands, with long tapered fingers and soft smooth skin; hands that, by the look of them, had never lifted anything heavier than a rifle.

  I could see him measuring me, wondering how fast I was, wondering if he was faster. I knew what he was thinking, knew without a doubt, because the same thoughts were crowding my mind.

  And then the time for thinking was past. Curly’s eyes changed and his hand streaked for his gun. But I was that fatal fraction of a second faster, and I shot him out of the saddle.