Scotsman Wore Spurs

by Potter, Patricia;

  The day wore on. Undulating expanses of prairie stretched as far as Drew could see, and there was no sign of galloping, painted braves. Kirby rested inside the wagon with Pepper, and Drew drove the team, with three rifles lying at his feet.

  They stopped early in the afternoon beside the Washita River. Drew unhitched the team. Pepper got down and opened the wagon boot, where all the pans and the staples were housed. But as Drew helped him take out the Dutch oven, the cook fell, his hand going to his chest. Drew caught him. The cook’s precious oven clattered to the ground.

  As Drew eased Pepper down to lie on the hard-packed earth, Gabrielle, who had unhitched her own team, sprinted toward them, her face full of distress.

  Pepper struggled to sit, leaning against a wagon wheel. Seeing Gabrielle, he frowned and waved her away. “Don’ jus’ stand there. Get supper started.”

  Drew watched her face. There was nothing blank about it now, nothing concealed. Anguish filled her eyes.

  “Pepper?” she whispered.

  “You deef?” the cook said. His face was no longer red but a pasty color, and his breathing was labored. His hand clutched at his chest, but his gaze was steely.

  She shook her head. “I’ll start the fire.”

  The old man seemed to relax. “You can do it now. You can do it all. Smart lad.” He closed his eyes, and his body slumped against the wheel.

  Kirby, who had climbed out of the wagon as quickly as his injuries allowed, kneeled next to Pepper, taking his hand. “Don’t do this to me. Damn it, Pepper, don’t do it.”

  Drew leaned over, felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, unsurprised to discover that there was none. He stood, heaving a sigh as he leaned against a wheel. Then he glanced at Gabrielle.

  She was standing absolutely still, tears glistening in her eyes. She turned away, stumbled. Then, with a shuddering sigh, she straightened, turned, and walked briskly toward the hoodlum wagon.

  He went after her.

  They reached the hoodlum wagon at the same time, and he watched as she reached blindly inside for wood, spilling several pieces as she lifted out others.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and she jerked away, huddling against the wagon. Her shoulders heaved.

  “Gabrielle,” he said softly.

  She turned around, used the back of her hand to wipe away a tear. “I’m all right,” she said.

  “I don’t think you are.”

  “Why do you even care?” she said, her voice filled with bitterness.

  “God help me, I do,” he said.

  “I don’t need you,” she said. “I don’t want you.”

  “Ah, lass …”

  She spun on him. “I’m not your lass.” Reaching down, she picked up the wood she’d spilled. “Pepper,” she said with dignity, “would want me to get supper.”

  And with that, she walked swiftly away, leaving him standing there, in awe of her courage—and aching to hold her and take away her pain.

  They buried Pepper as the last glow of the retreating sun bronzed the horizon. Every man not on duty stood at graveside while Kirby, a Bible in his hand, read a passage from Psalms.

  Gabrielle stood beside the grave with the others, twisting her hat in her hands. She barely noticed the curious stares the drovers cast at her short curls. All of them were holding their hats, too, and it would have been stranger still for her to have kept hers on. At the moment, she didn’t care what anyone thought. She was simply miserable and couldn’t imagine things getting any worse.

  Kingsley’s voice was awkward, broken as he spoke. She had come to realize that the two men—the rancher and the cook—had been friends for a long time. Kingsley’s pain as he read the Twenty-third Psalm was obvious. She didn’t want to sympathize with him, but she did.

  When he finished, each person turned a shovelful of dirt into the grave. She took the shovel from Drew, her hands unsteady as their fingers touched for a split second. She scooped up her share of dirt and tossed it in, then passed the shovel on to Damien. Drew started a song, a hymn she recognized, and the others joined him. She mouthed the words, knowing that her contralto voice would give her away, if her curls already hadn’t. And then the men moved slowly away, leaving Kirby and Drew to raise a rough wooden cross that Drew had fashioned.

  She had cooked some salt pork and beans, along with fresh bread. The bread still didn’t have the lightness of Pepper’s, nor the beans the spice, but she heard no complaints. The drovers always muttered as they ate Pepper’s beans—right before they came back for second helpings. She figured she had not yet earned their muttering. It was a sign of affection and respect.

  She would make them mutter, she thought, if it was the last thing she did. For Pepper, she would make them mutter.

  Haley’s Trading Post had been raided and burned. Only a dog remained, lying beside one of eight mounds of earth, its head tucked between its front paws. The animal barely managed to raise its head to acknowledge the newcomers as Drew rode in with Kirby and Damien beside him.

  Drew looked at the ground as they cautiously approached, applying the tracking skills he’d learned over the past month. Unshod hoof tracks were overlaid with shod ones, which probably meant that soldiers had reached the trading post too late but, given that all tracks led off in the same direction, had gone after the culprits.

  The tracks headed northwest. The drive was headed straight north. Perhaps, he thought, they could avoid trouble. Although, all things considered, that was probably too much to ask.

  Neither Kirby nor Damien spoke as they dismounted and walked slowly around to inspect the devastation. Viewing the scene, Drew thought their silence was appropriate. He dismounted, too, and looked over the burned-out timbers, guessing there had been at least four buildings and a corral. The smell of smoke and fire still lingered, but when he touched a charred piece of fencing, it was cold. Two days, he thought, perhaps three.

  Looking at Kirby, who was standing at the line of graves with his hat in his hand, Drew saw his friend’s shoulders slump. He looked tired. Hell, he had to be hurting, both physically from his wounds and internally from Pepper’s death.

  Five days after being wounded, the trail boss had insisted on riding again and on assuming the duties of scout. Drew had argued against it, and for once, Damien had been on his side as they’d both tried to persuade Kirby to let someone else do it. But their arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Drew knew they’d been lucky to convince Kirby, at least, to take someone else with him.

  Drew didn’t understand Kirby’s reluctance. It was evident to everyone on the drive that someone had tried to kill him. Was he trying to get himself killed? It almost seemed that way. When he left the herd to go riding across the open prairie, grim resignation etched into his face, it was as if he were riding out to meet his death. As if it were his destiny.

  Shuddering, Drew tried to shake off the morbid thoughts. Told himself he was letting the burned ruins around him and the days of endless, empty prairie get to him.

  Besides, with no gunmen in sight, they had more immediate problems. Kirby had stopped the herd five miles back at a water hole, and they were here, at the trading post, to order supplies. Supplies that wouldn’t be here, waiting, when the wagons arrived.

  Walking over to stand next to Kirby, he looked at the graves. “Friends?” he asked.

  “Not particularly,” Kirby said. “Haley wasn’t the friendliest man on earth. He overcharged drovers and sold guns and liquor to the Indians. But he was the only damned supplier in a hundred miles.”

  Gesturing toward the remaining seven mounds, Drew asked, “And the others?”

  Kirby sighed. “Last time I was here, Haley’s had five men and three women working for him. One kept the store, two were half-breeds who handled the stock. There was a blacksmith, and then there was Benedict.”

  “Benedict?”

  “A doctor of sorts.” Kirby uttered a harsh laugh. “He could drink more than any man I’ve ever seen and still remain standing. His fee
was usually a bottle of Haley’s rotgut. But when he was sober, he could heal man or beast better than any sawbones I’ve ever known. Stayed here because he had an Indian wife. Whites ostracized her and him, too. Haley left them alone.”

  Kirby shook his head. “She’s one of the reasons Haley had no trouble with Indians. She was a chief’s daughter or something. Then, too, Haley wasn’t particular about what he traded.”

  Drew looked around. It would have been a hell of a lonely existence out here in the middle of nowhere. A lonelier death.

  Damien walked up to them. “We’re running short of supplies, Uncle Kirby. What do we do now?”

  “I’m worried more about those damned Indians,” Kirby said, waving the hand that held his hat to include the ruins. “It looks like a passel of them.”

  Damien grunted something affirmative. “Yeah, and it looks like the army’s on their tail.”

  “Humph,” Kirby grunted.

  Drew knew Kirby shared his fellow Texans’ disdain for the U.S. Army, a dislike that ran back to the American ‘Civil War.’ Tensions still openly simmered from the bloody conflict.

  At that moment, their attention was drawn to the lone survivor of the massacre: the dog. They all looked at the end grave when the animal lying next to it let out a brief, plaintive whine.

  Drew glanced at the well and saw that the top had been burned. Walking over to his horse, he got his canteen, then walked back to where the dog lay. He poured some water into his hat and offered it to the animal. The dog whined again and tried to stand but couldn’t. The animal was holding one of its legs awkwardly, and Drew noticed a deep wound. He pushed the hat under the dog’s nose and watched it drink, slowly at first, then frantically.

  When the animal was through, it lay down next to the grave again, its head resting on the mound.

  Damien drew his six-shooter from its holster.

  “No,” Drew said sharply.

  “It’s best for the animal,” Damien said. “What in the hell do you want to do with it? Leave it here to die of thirst?”

  Drew looked back at the motionless dog, keeping vigil over its master’s grave. He couldn’t bear to see the beast’s loyalty and devotion rewarded with a bullet.

  “Two-Bits,” he said, “can take of him.”

  “Ha!” Damien snorted. “Like that damned calf that’s always running all over the camp? Besides, we’ll be getting a new cook, and who’ll take care of the damned animal then?”

  Drew shot a look at Kirby.

  “He’s right, Scotty,” the trail boss said. “You know it.”

  Drew shook his head. “None of us thought Billy was any good, and look at him now. Another month and he’ll out-race any horse you have. Two-Bits has a way with animals, you know that.”

  All three of them turned their gazes back to the dog, who suddenly looked up at Drew as if sensing an ally. Liquid brown eyes regarded him sorrowfully. Of medium size, with thick black and white fur, a long nose, and an intelligent look in his eyes, the animal looked to be a mongrel.

  Kirby sighed in resignation. “If you can get him away from that grave, you can bring him along.”

  Drew flashed him a grateful smile, going down on one knee to run his hand along the dog’s fur. It trembled but didn’t move, nor did it make a sound. He took the injured paw and flexed it. The leg wasn’t broken, but the wound looked infected.

  “Come on, boy,” he said, urging to dog to its feet. But the animal only looked at him. Drew fished in his pocket and found a piece of jerky, offering that. The dog sniffed it, then put his head back down between his paws.

  Damien walked away, snorting in disgust.

  Drew swore. Then he thought about Gabrielle, and in his mind he saw her smile. He hadn’t seen that dimpled smile recently, not, in fact, since their abbreviated shooting lesson.

  He rubbed the dog’s head. “’Tis time for the living, my wee friend,” he said in a low voice meant only for the dog’s ears. “And I’m knowing a body who needs ye as much as ye need her.”

  The dog ignored him. Clearly, he didn’t understand Highland speech.

  Drew sighed, reached down and started to pick up the beast—and promptly got bitten on the wrist.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “So much for good intentions,” Kirby said. “We don’t have all day for this.”

  Drew scowled at the dog. Then, tearing off a piece of his shirt, he tied the dog’s mouth shut, ignoring the growling protest. “I canna’ leave ye here,” he said. He looked up at Kirby. “You don’t know who his owner might have been?”

  Kirby shrugged. “There’s always a lot of dogs around. Might have been Benedict’s. I don’t think Haley ever cared for a living thing.”

  Sometimes that didn’t matter. Drew knew that as surely as he knew his own name. He’d tried his bloody damnedest to be loved, only to be kicked and beaten. He’d always come back for more. Too many times.

  He picked up the dog and mounted his horse, his left arm holding the squirming furry bundle, trying to ignore its frantic attempts to return to the grave.

  “He’ll try to come back,” Kirby warned him.

  “Maybe,” Drew said, knowing that Gabrielle would tame the beast. He was sure of it. He didn’t trust her. But he trusted her gentleness and her compassion.

  Dammit, she would love this bloody dog.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gabrielle loved the dog from the first moment she saw him. She loved him even more after hearing of his vigil at the grave. But what she loved most was that Drew had brought the animal to her.

  With his eyes conveying both tenderness and amusement, he dumped the dog into her arms. “I’ve brought you some more trouble,” he said, his brogue thick and lilting. “And I’m thinking this wagon will soon be resembling a bloody ark.”

  Joy rushed through her. He hadn’t entirely given up on her. Yet the knowledge frightened her, too, because she was afraid to hope, afraid to care too much.

  Really though it was too late. She already cared too much. Her heart wanted to burst whenever she looked at him, and when their gazes met, she felt tremors of warmth in that place he’d awakened inside her.

  She gathered up the ragged piece of fur and hugged him close. Unable to express her gratitude to Drew in words, she let her eyes thank him.

  “You’ll have to be after naming the beast,” he said. “No one knows how he was called.”

  “Honor,” she said suddenly, thinking of the dog’s steadfastness by his master’s grave. “I think I’ll call him Honor.”

  And Honor was no trouble at all. He was just sad, and Gabrielle spent more time that day with him than she should have, talking to him, telling him that his master had gone to a wonderful place and that he, Honor, had a new home.

  Well, maybe he was a little trouble. Because she gave the dog so much attention, supper was late, the beans gravelly, and the bread overcooked. Damien scowled, which he did very well, and Kirby muttered something about how he must be going daft, letting her keep the “damned beast.” But he didn’t make her give the dog up.

  The following morning, as they crossed the river and pushed north, Honor sat next to her on the bench of the hoodlum wagon. She flicked the reins, urging the mules onward, trying to keep pace with the chuck wagon being driven by one of the wranglers. Because of the increased threat of Indian raids, the wagons were still staying closer to the herd than usual. Nerves were stretched to a fine point. Arguments and fights had broken out last night after Kingsley reported his findings at Haley’s. Supplies were dwindling, including coffee and sugar.

  Gabrielle reached over and stroked the dog, who tolerated her affection without enthusiasm. He’d stopped whining though, and he seemed more relaxed than when Drew had handed him to her. She was still afraid to untie him, afraid he might go back to the ruined trading post.

  The plains seemed endless as she looked out across them, her eyes watchful. She was the sole cook now, until Kingsley replaced her. Before he did, she planned to use t
he access that her new position afforded her to sneak a look at the trail boss’s belongings. Not that she had any expectation that such a search would produce hard evidence that Kingsley had murdered her father. It was simply the only thing she could think of to do that might, at least, give her a clue about the man she’d found so difficult to know.

  She stroked Honor again as guilt welled up in her. She didn’t want to use Pepper’s death for her own advantage. She had grown to care about the man and his gruff ways.

  Nor had she been raised to think it was acceptable to invade someone else’s privacy. She couldn’t help feeling she was betraying her parents and herself by spying on Kingsley. While her father’s last words still echoed constantly in her mind, she nonetheless had formed a grudging respect for the powerful cattleman.

  He had hired a young, desperate boy, and for that insolent youth he’d allowed a broken-down horse to come on a long, hard trail drive. He’d stayed the execution of a newborn calf who’d had to be carried in a wagon. He’d given a reprieve to a dog who was sure to have died and who would need to be fed from their dwindling supplies. And he’d been close to tears, speaking over the grave of a man he’d called friend for twenty years—she was sure of it.

  Gabrielle was desperate to reconcile Kingsley’s behavior with the image she had painted of him in her mind as a cold-blooded killer, and for that reason alone, she would put aside her scruples and her self-respect to search his belongings. She had, at best, ten days on the trail before they reached the next town, where Kingsley would try to find a new cook. Ten days to learn the truth.

  And ten days of being totally responsible for the care and feeding of sixteen drovers—with only limited supplies to accomplish the task.

  Hoofbeats interrupted her thoughts, and she peered around the edge of the wagon to see Kingsley himself galloping toward her.

  “Canadian River ahead, about one mile,” he shouted. “We stay on this side overnight, then cross at dawn.”