“I guess he can shoot—some,” one offered drily.
“Do I get the job?” Mike prodded.
“Yeah. Who are you, anyway? On the dodge?” Sharpe couldn’t leave off worrying the bone of contention Mike’s shot created.
“Mike Carey.” He ignored the second question. “Where do I bunk?” He bit his lip, glad for the few western words Mercy had taught him.
“You sound like an easterner,” Sharpe said disparagingly.
Mike’s shoulder muscles tensed. If he took that kind of talk even from his new boss he’d lose the ground gained with the shot. “You have something against easterners?” His innocent, round face must have reassured Sharpe, for the foreman immediately shook his head.
“Naw. Some eastern guy named Prentice bought the Circle 5 and he’s got the cash to make it a paying ranch.” A little smile that didn’t reach Sharpe’s eyes left Mike edgy and fighting not to change color.
“I don’t know any easterner who shoots like that,” one hand called.
“That’s ‘cause you don’t know no easterner a-tall,” another drawled and the first grinned and admitted it.
Mike turned to Peso and led him to the watering trough. He could feel the gaze of a couple dozen pairs of eyes boring into his back.
“Oh, Carey,” Sharpe said.
Mike turned but said nothing.
“Before you sign on there’s just one thing.” Sharpe’s brittle laugh didn’t fool Mike one bit. “That’s a good quarter horse, and when we start herding and rounding up I’ll take him. You can have one of those.” He waved to the score of horses in the corral.
A low murmur from the watching hands strengthened Mike. So did his lawyer’s warning. Without a word he gathered Peso’s reins, turned him from the trough, and mounted.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Sharpe’s voice cut the still air like a bowie knife.
Mike deliberately rounded his eyes. “I’ll get a job somewhere else. No one but me rides Peso.” He touched his heels to Peso’s flanks but was stopped by Sharpe’s voice.
“Just testing, Carey. Climb down. Nobody else touches Peso.”
Chapter 7
The new Mike Carey gloated with every nail driven, every improvement made to the Circle 5 ranch. Enchantment lay in each sunrise and sunset, in lazy evenings at the end of satisfying hard days and in the thunderclouds that gathered above the peaks. It still seemed impossible that he owned the Circle 5.
Yet more important to him than the knowledge that he daily proved himself to his fellow cowboys was a return of the old companionship with his Lord. Mike hadn’t realized the depth of his emptiness until one early evening when he rode Peso to the knoll above the ranch and drank in the sweet night air. Now he whispered into the gathering purple shadows. “Thank you, God…” and left unsaid those things in his heart too deep for words.
Another day he faced the wild wind, rejoiced in the magnificent thunder and lightning, and then raced for the warmth and safety of the bunkhouse. Snowflake-sized raindrops pounded the earth and filled the air with the pungent fragrance of crushed sagebrush.
At first the Circle 5 cowboys drew an imaginary line with Mike alone on one side. To his amazement, few of the tricks he’d expected came. The second night Mike and the hands slept out when driving strays from the draws. Mike awakened to feel a gentle tug on his blankets. He opened his mouth to yell, remembering the campfire talk of coyotes so bold they sneaked into camp and dragged off blankets. Red-faced, lovable Joe Perkins had warned, “Coyotes out here sometimes get rabid. If ever you feel your blankets a-movin’ just holler and we’ll come a-runnin’.”
Just before Mike hollered loud enough to be heard back in Concord, he remembered something else: the hastily concealed snicker followed by a glare at the boys from Joe. Mike clamped his lips shut and quietly investigated. His searching fingers discovered a taut rope. In a lightning move, he leaped from his blankets and with a mighty heave jerked the rope. Joe Perkins lurched then fell almost at Mike’s feet, still holding the rope.
“What the—” A dozen cowboys sat up in their bedrolls. Mike couldn’t tell in the starlight whether they had been rudely awakened or merely feigned surprise. He leaned down, helped Joe to his feet, and cried, “Thanks, pard! If you hadn’t lassoed that doggoned rabid coyote I’d be foaming at the mouth soon.” He whacked the ludicrous figure on the back. “Boys, I never knew how grand you were until now. I’ll just bet you’ve been doing night watch for me all along.” He stretched his mouth in a wide yawn. “That ornery old coyote’s probably still running so we can all sleep better.” Shaking with concealed mirth at the significant silence around him, Mike rolled up in his disarranged blankets and seconds later emitted a series of loud snores, his ears alert to the low rumble among the cowboys.
“I’ll be hanged!” Joe’s hoarse whisper faithfully carried his chagrin. “Think he really thought that? Or is he smart?”
“Mebbe both,” someone else answered.
“Makes a man feel lower than a jackrabbit’s belly to pull meanness on a man who thanks you for it,” a third grunted.
“No more sneakin’ around at night for me,” Joe promised. “It’s a wonder he didn’t shoot! You all saw what happened the day he rode in.”
Again Mike silently thanked God for steadying his hand on that momentous occasion. Only to Nate, who had carelessly ridden out and passed the time of day with the boys then managed to get Mike aside for a few minutes had the new ranch owner confessed his shock when that bullet went straight.
Outside of a few other obviously half-hearted attempts that Mike’s keen senses sniffed out and foiled, the boys abandoned attempts to make his life miserable. Joe did annoy Mike by sometimes attempting to imitate the eastern twang in Mike’s speech but threw up his hands in defeat when Mike innocently said, “You sound kind of funny lately, Joe. Are you feeling all right?” He later overheard another just-among-the-hands conversation where the men unanimously agreed “wasn’t no fun pesterin’ a feller who don’t seem to know when he’s bein’ funned.”
All Mike’s good nature combined with his innocent expression soon sponged the imaginary line. Yet a single incident welded him solidly into the chain of loyalty among his comrades. Hot, dusty, and wearier than he’d been in his life, Mike and the others rode into the ranch late on Saturday afternoon. According to range custom, they were free over Sunday except for those who had the misfortune to draw night duty. Mike could barely wait for Sunday. So far he hadn’t been off the ranch or surrounding area, but now he could attend church in Antelope and meet the Birchfields, and Desert Rose. His pulse pounded and he admitted that every step he and Peso had taken in the time he’d been at the Circle 5 had more or less been directed to that end.
Fate in the person of Dan Sharpe decreed otherwise. Mike knew without being told the foreman had taken a blind, unreasonable dislike to his new hand. Mike gritted his teeth and prayed his way through the dirtiest range jobs assigned to him. He would not whimper. He also realized for the first time how loving your enemies left them speechless. Although Sharpe well hid his feelings, the loud “haw-haws” of his men when Mike blandly raised his innocent blue gaze to his boss and whistled over his work rankled him.
“Why’d you let him put it over on you?” Joe Perkins demanded of Mike once when Sharpe had been particularly overbearing.
“I want to keep my job on the Circle 5.” Yet Mike caught the doubt and disappointment in his new friend’s eyes and inwardly sighed. Must he sacrifice the hard-won respect of his trailmates because Sharpe spurred him?
Prayer emboldened Mike for the next brush with his boss. When Sharpe arrogantly strolled into the corral where the tired hands were unsaddling and rubbing down their equally tired horses, Mike’s lips set in a straight line.
“Oh, Carey, there’s a bad break in the south pasture fence. Too late to fix it tonight so you’ll have to do it tomorrow.” The amber eyes held watchfulness.
Perkins slapped dust from his jeans with hi
s hat. “Aw, boss, have a heart. Mike’s put in the last two Sundays doin’ chores.”
Sharpe quelled him with a lightning glance, and the other hands shifted uneasily or kept busy with their horses.
Mike slowly turned from Peso. “When did you learn about the fence break?”
“Yesterday, but what does that matter? I gave you an order. You’ll get out there at daybreak and fix that fence.” Sharpe’s eyes glowed with anger.
“Why didn’t whoever found it fix it?” Mike laughed and rounded his blue eyes. “Seems funny for someone just to ride in and say the fence is broken instead of repairing it.”
“Fix the fence or get your time,” Sharpe snapped and strode away. His boot heels rang on the hard earth.
“I don’t believe the fence is even down,” Perkins burst out. He eyed the amount of light left in the sky, calculated, and swung toward Mike. “How about us takin’ a little ride?”
“Right now? I thought you were going into Antelope with the boys.” Mike thoughtfully glanced at the western sky as Joe had done.
Perkins scuffed his boots. “Do you want to go or don’t you? I kind of hanker to see that fence for myself.”
“Sure, but I won’t take Peso.” He slapped the quarter horse on the rump and Peso lazily ambled off to graze.
Joe grunted agreement. They chose fresh mounts from the bunch in the corral and fifteen minutes later headed toward the south range, chewing on biscuits filled with chunks of beef provided by the accommodating cook.
“Well, she’s down all right.” Joe reined in when they reached the fence. He slid from the saddle and carefully examined the pulled-up stakes. “Hmmm.”
Mike joined him. “What is it?”
Joe tilted his big hat farther down over his eyes and drawled, “It either took a buffalo, a mean steer, or a man with a lasso to pull up those stakes.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning I don’t know many buffaloes or mean steers who up an’ jerk out a dozen posts all in a row just to be doin’ somethin’.” His lips narrowed to a slit. “Well, let’s put ‘em back where they belong.” He pulled on heavy gloves and grimaced. “Nothin’ a poor cowpoke likes better on Saturday night than fixin’ a derned fence!”
Hours later the two rode home through a silver night so incredibly beautiful Mike wished he could just settle down for the night and watch it change from moment to moment. At Joe’s suggestion, they had chosen a shortcut that took them off Circle 5 land and across a chunk of property between the Browns’ Double B and Hardwick’s Lazy H. Suddenly Perkins’s low warning halted Mike.
“Somethin’ funny here,” Joe whispered. “There ain’t supposed to be lights on that parcel. It’s never used ‘cept by the Lazy H for grazin’. They pay fees to the owner, whoever he is.” His arm shot out and gripped Mike’s shoulder. “Stay here and don’t make noise, no matter what.” The next moment Joe slipped off his horse and vanished into the dark shadows cast by trees and kissed by a night wind.
An eternity later a gunshot alerted Mike who still held the bridle of Joe’s horse. It took all he could do to keep his own horse and Joe’s from pitching. Then, silence. The moon had slid behind a cloud and Mike peered ahead. Joe had told him to wait, but how could he, not knowing what that shot meant? With a quick prayer for guidance and help, Mike sprang from the saddle and tied the horses to a nearby tree. He couldn’t take the chance of leaving them with reins standing as nervous as they were. No lights penetrated the darkness when Mike crept forward.
What seemed like a mile was in reality a few hundred feet between the horses and the point where Mike stumbled over something in the path. His heart leaped to his throat. Long, dark, and grotesque, a figure lay motionless at his feet. “Joe?” Mike dropped to his knees, felt for Joe’s heartbeat, and his hand came away wet and slippery. He smelled it—blood.
The sympathetic moon crawled from behind its cloud and shone directly on Joe’s pallid face. His eyes opened. “Pard, get outa here. Now! Five of ‘em; they may come back.” He struggled to sit up and fell back senseless.
Every instinct for self-preservation screamed run in Mike’s ears. He shook his head to clear it, snatched off his scarf, and jerked open Joe’s jacket and shirt. “Thank God!” The wound he expected and found was high, away from the heart, near the hollow in Joe’s shoulder. Mike stuffed the scarf against the seeping blood and ripped off Joe’s scarf and wadded it against the gaping wound where the bullet had gone out of Joe’s back. Perkins moaned and the pads shifted. Mike shed his jacket, tore his shirt into strips, and bound the lifesaving pads into place then forced Joe back into his shirt and jacket.
Every ounce of Mike’s newfound strength and a broken, “God, help us, please,” sustained him. Once the bandages lay firm, he considered then crept forward. He must ascertain that Joe’s attackers had gone before attempting to move the cowboy he had learned to admire and love. Only the faint thud, thud of hooves fading in the distance could be heard. “They must not want anyone to know who they are or what they’re doing,” Mike surmised. The silver night had become the stuff of which nightmares are made. Somehow Mike got Joe into the saddle of his horse. Yet he reeled until Mike knew he’d never stay upright. They’d have to ride double and put the second horse on a lead line. If only good old Peso were here instead of this strong but flighty stallion!
Streaks of dawn caressed the sky by the time Mike and his injured companion reached the Circle 5. With his last spurt of energy he got Joe down and into the bunkhouse. Willing hands who had awakened from what little sleep they had after getting home late from the Antelope saloons fumbled and proved more bother than they were worth. Mike sent the soberest of the bunch to town for Dr. Birchfield and ordered the others to stand back. “We won’t remove the bandages until the doctor comes,” he told them. Bleary-eyed and unshaven, they bore little resemblance to the singing bunch who had come in from the trail dusty but eager for their night in town.
Disgust filled Mike. When he took over the Circle 5, he wouldn’t stand for drinking. If it meant running the ranch with a half crew or doing it all himself, so be it. For an instant he wanted to rail at them all, tell them to look at what they were doing. His shoulders sagged, aching from the long night’s strain.
“Pard?” Joe’s weak whisper drove all condemnation away.
“Here,” Mike triumphantly pressed Joe’s hand. “Don’t try to talk. The doctor will be here soon.”
Joe’s face wrinkled. His pain-glazed eyes locked around the bunkhouse. “Aw, you brought me home! How come you didn’t save your own skin?”
Mike felt rather than saw the ripple of shock that froze the others around them. His voice rang. “Joe Perkins, if it had been I who got shot, wouldn’t you have done the same?”
A grin more like his usual look sat strangely on the pale face, but Joe’s eyes flashed. “Reckon I would.” He licked dry lips. “Gimme some water, will you?”
The cook sprang to get it and Mike remembered something. “Did anyone tell Sharpe?”
“Naw, he rode out right after you did,” someone volunteered. “Said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Didn’t say where he was goin’.”
Why did a strange feeling brush wings in Mike’s mind? Too tired to identify it, he stumbled to a wash basin, cleaned up as best he could, and sat down to wait for the doctor.
His first impression of Dr. Adam Birchfield indelibly etched itself on Mike’s brain. Tall, dark, and authoritative, he said little while ministering to Joe except to state he had been given just the right attention and would heal in a short time. Not until he completed his work and washed his blood-stained hands did he turn his piercing black gaze that betrayed his relationship to Nate toward Mike. “New hand? I think Nate mentioned you.” His grip proved to be everything and more Mike expected of the legendary man Nate had described. Mike met his gaze squarely.
“Mike Carey.”
“Have you studied medicine?”
“No, I just knew the blood had to be stopped. I pra
yed a lot, too,” Mike added frankly.
In the paralyzing stillness that greeted his astounding announcement, the tick of an old clock sounded loud. Then Dr. Birchfield said, “Well, thanks to both, your friend will be fine.” He yawned and the black eyes danced. “I’d better get back to Antelope. Our population is due to be increased any minute and I’ll be needed.” He gripped Mike’s hand again, nodded to the rest of the hands, and walked out.
“Can we get some shut-eye now?” someone plaintively asked and it started a rush to the bunks.
Hours later Mike came out of a sound sleep when the bunkhouse door crashed open and heavy-booted footsteps crossed the scrubbed wooden floor. “Where’s Carey? Peso’s here so Carey must be, too. He’s through. Any time I give a man an order and he ignores it—what’s wrong with you?”
From the shelter of his blankets, Mike grinned and waited for the fun to begin. He could see Joe propped up against a roll of blankets, his bandaged chest visible through a half-opened shirt.
“Well, boss, you’d be short one cowpoke if it weren’t for Mike Carey,” Joe drawled in his most maddening way. His hands curled around a cup of coffee and the steam spiraled up to hide his expression, but Mike heard the glee in his voice and grinned again.
“Carey!” Dan Sharpe appeared absolutely flabbergasted. “Perkins, get that stupid look off your face and start talking.”
With all the insouciance Joe possessed, he began. “Me an’ Mike thought we’d go on an’ mosey down to the south pasture to the fence last night instead of him waitin’ until today. See, he wanted to go to church, an’—”
“Forget what he wanted.” Sharpe’s eyes looked more like a lion’s than ever. “What happened?”
“We found the fence all righty an’ fixed it. Funny thing about that.” Joe’s steady gaze bored right back into Sharpe’s. “Anyway, when we got done the moon had come up, so I said we’d cut through that piece of land between the Double B and the Lazy H.”
Wildflower Harvest: Includes Bonus Story of Desert Rose Page 21