Sammy looked out the window a moment. It was snowing harder, but it didn't register as he absorbed the weight of the conversation. He swung his eyes back to Homer. “Growing up here has been … well, I can't imagine the Lord could have provided any better. I am in debt to you and Reuben and Lundy for my life. I hope you know that I would honor any request of yours to my last breath.
“Then honor this, son. This is not an implied request. Neither Reuben nor I extend any obligation to you. You can climb any mountain you choose with nothing but our best wishes.”
“I appreciate that, sir. Ranchin’ is in my blood. I love horses and cattle and everything there is to life here. Until this whole fracas at the Frontier and the reward money, I never really imagined anything else. But I'd be false if I didn't state that the possibilities been rattlin’ around in my head.”
“I'd be amazed if they weren't. Now you've got another possibility to throw on the pile. So take your time…. No rush on anything. This ain't an offer with a time limit.”
“I'm much obliged, Mister Taylor. But I don't need time to figure this out. I'd be honored and grateful to accept your offer.”
“Good, son … good. In case that high-city excitement of Denver sways your thinking, we'll wait till you return. If you're still of a mind to it then, we'll have Buck Thornton do the legal work and prepare a deed. Now tell me about your trip to La Jara. What's new in town?”
“There was mail from Mister Westerfeld confirming that he received word of my plans to be there in April. And he received the affidavit from Sheriff Ritter and Judge Stanley about me being the man that killed Lonny Ballantine. He also sent me two hundred dollars for travelin’ expenses.”
“Two hundred, eh? That'd see you through to New York, much less Denver.”
“Yes, sir. I thought it was generous, myself. I also found out there's no stage runnin’ between Stratford and Cimarron or Kinglow and Raton … not countin’ the other holes in the route that might be. Word is, there's been Apache attacks against some of the Butterfield stages. I never gave much serious thought to anything save ridin’ up there, anyway. That'll be high adventure.”
Homer raised an eyebrow as he exhaled a pull from the pipe. “Riding alone through some of that Apache territory might turn up more adventure than you want. The Apaches are generally good and honorable people, but there are renegade bands that are murdering thieves.”
“Yes, sir. I've heard about them. But I believe ridin’ east through Cisco flats and the La Planta country then turning north would dampen the chances of meetin’ up with hostiles … ‘least that's what Sheriff Ritter thinks.”
“Sheriff Ritter usually gets good word on Apache movements. Only make sure you're finding out all you can just before you leave. Your thinking holds right now. They usually winter more northwest … up in the Valle de Sol country. But come spring, they'll be on the move, and predictability on where they're at can be a real sketchy thing—especially with the renegades.”
“I'll find out all I can before I leave,” Sammy replied.
“It may have occurred to you, but let me tell you anyway. You'll need to keep your wits about you in every respect. If it's not certain, then it's likely that word of your purpose and arrival will end up known by more unsavory types before you get there. If so, schemers and charlatans of every con game will be looking to fleece you. And they'll bring sophistication to their purpose with which you're not acquainted. So be on guard … always.”
Chapter 23
“C'mon, Dobe!”
His dream was frightful with Indians bearing down on him. Then Dobe pulled up lame just as he rode off the open plains and into some trees where he knew he had a chance to get out of their direct line of sight, and perhaps he could find a defensible position.
“C'mon boy! You can't fold now!” he yelled. But the rock of reliability could move no farther and stood with quivering forelegs and raspy, heaving breath that Sammy mystically understood as Dobe's cries for him to get away and leave him behind.
He grabbed his rifle from the scabbard and two boxes of cartridges from his saddlebags, then he slung his canteen over his shoulder. “I'll be back for you, boy! I'm comin’ back!” He ran a jagged course through the trees up a mild slope, his eyes searching for a natural redoubt, something somewhere where he had cover and could make a fight. He saw the rock outcropping fifty yards ahead and scrambled to it with the sound of pounding hooves and yipping Indians close behind.
Jenny's voice floated from all around him like an echo of last hope. “Hide Sammy! Don't let them get you!”
He reached the outcropping and jumped into a hollow that offered a perfect hiding space with a rifle portal between the rocks, giving him good visibility of both flanks. Sammy jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle and sighted in on the Indians. They had reached the trees and were fanning out as they cantered up the slope. There were about a dozen to his left, their course veering away from his position. He trained his rifle toward them as they gradually disappeared from sight. When he could see them no more, he listened to the retreat of sound as it faded like a rising wish. Minutes passed, and the silence came as a beautiful comforting blanket, a void from all sound that enveloped like the warmth and safety of a womb.
Sammy looked back down the slope. Through the trees a hundred yards away, he could see the lone Indian examining Dobe, running his hands over the right shoulder and foreleg. He knew the Indian had deduced the horse was lame. He trained his rifle on the Indian, knowing what would come next as the Indian pulled the long knife from its sheath. The Indian was about to cut Dobe's throat. As Sammy took final aim, the sudden sensation of nothingness in his hands turned to disbelief and horror as his rifle vanished like the treachery of unstoppable fate. The Indian moved smoothly into position, holding his blade low at his side.
“Nooooooo!” Sammy yelled as he leapt from the rocks and sprinted down the slope, pulling his own knife in a desperate rush to save his horse.
He hit the wall with a force that broke the doorjamb and awoke everyone in the bunkhouse. A moment later, Lundy appeared at the open doorway to Sammy's room with a lit oil lamp in one hand and a pistol in the other. J.P., Franklin, and several other men were right behind Lundy and all had either pistols or rifles.
“Light a couple of them wall lamps so we can see what the hell's going on here!” Lundy said to no one in particular. Sammy was on his hands and knees just inside his room, his head hanging and blood dripping to the floor from a cut on his head. He was dazed and just becoming aware that he was in the bunkhouse. Lundy could see the increasing puddle of blood on the hardwood. He knelt down close to Sammy as the stunned cowboy rolled over on his hams and looked past Lundy at the men huddled in the doorway, cast in the eerie half-light of Lundy's lamp.
“What happened here, Sammy? Are you all right? I heard yellin’, and then there was a giant crash like a bull had stampeded into the wall,” Lundy said.
Sammy's heart still pounded from the adrenaline rush of the dream, a nightmare he now realized as the cause of his current position on the floor. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Teach that son of a bitch Indian not to mess with a man's horse.”
“What the hell's he talking about?” Franklin said as he stepped around Lundy and Sammy who were blocking the doorway. “Were you havin’ a dream? Some kinda nightmare or something?” Franklin asked.
Having regained all of his senses, Sammy felt slightly embarrassed. He got up and looked blankly ahead as he spoke. “That was the realest damn dream I ever had. Crazy savage was gonna kill my horse. I had to go for him.”
“Well, did ya get that red varmint? ‘Cause ya sure got that wall,” J.P. teased. Laughter erupted down the hallway.
“You know, I think I head-butted that ole boy up to Wyoming Territory,” Sammy replied with a goofy grin and blood running down his face. The men laughed again.
“I reckon you might a-taken too big a pull on that cough syrup,” Blaine Corker speculated. “Doc warned me
that too much would stone ya crazy. Said it has some opium in it.”
“Yeah? You drink some of his loco tonic, did you?” Lundy asked.
“Sure did. Had a cough this evenin’ and Blaine said it would help.”
“That's right … I remember,” J.P. said. “Come to think of it, you did swig on that pretty good.”
“Well, I ain't coughin’ no more,” Sammy replied.
“No, you ain't. Now you're bleedin’,” Lundy said.
Chapter 24
Ten days had passed since he'd run his head into the wall because of the Indian spook dream. Jacqueline had surveyed the gash the following morning and proceeded to sew six stitches into his head as if she were working on a torn shirt. She quickly and methodically poked the needle through the folds of skin she'd pinched together, all the while oblivious to Sammy's wincing and squirming as she pulled the thread through and dispensed proclamations. “Contrary to some thinking, there are better ways to gain sense than trying to knock it into yourself,” she said. “These stitches will need to stay put for awhile … and maybe you should too. Dreaming about Indians and such may be a sign that traipsing after money could have a bad ending.”
“Traipsing?” Sammy asked with a tone of disappointment. “I won't ever traipse after anything in this world … least of all money. Let's just say I'm seizing an opportunity to expand my means and horizons—and any such venture comes with some risk.”
“I didn't mean it like that,” Jacqueline said. “It's just that we all care for you so … and Denver is a long way to go … especially alone. Can't that railroad man just send the money to you? Or to the bank in Santa Fe in your name? Or some arrangement like that?”
“I don't know, and I ain't really in a position to find out. If he wants me to collect it personally, then that's what I aim to do.”
From deep within the den, the luminescent eyes peered toward the gray dot of daybreak perched at the opening. A labyrinth of small tunnels and entrances made up much of the thirty-yard long granite butte that was part of a south-facing slope. It was home to a pack of coyotes. They had pulled down several Twin T. beeves over the last month and showed no inclination of slowing down.
Sammy and Blaine Corker had shot six of them when the pack had come back for a second day of feeding on one of its kills. The cowboys had staked out the carcass with Blaine on one flank and Sammy on the other, their positions downwind from where they suspected the den, hence the approach, would be. The coyotes had arrived cautiously, continuing to scan as they fed. When Blaine took the first shot, Sammy instantly answered, and the hot led gallery commenced with the coyotes running and each man jacking shells, sighting and shooting in delirious speed and accuracy.
Only two had escaped. Now, a day later and three miles from where they had shot the others, Sammy and Blaine were staked out in a flanking and elevated position to the rock butte where they believed the coyote den was.
Sammy scanned the granite below as he chewed on the last piece of beef jerky. The rest of the food cache of biscuits and more jerky resided with the horses that were tied to trees a quarter mile upslope. Both men were ready to finish this business and return to the T. after three cold nights at one of the line shacks. They were out of coffee and low on tobacco, and a hot meal would be particularly welcome.
Sammy took a swig from his canteen and looked across the slope to where Blaine's position revealed nothing more distinguishable than rock and creosote brush. His eyes returned to the target area, as he reached up to his hairline and felt the knot of thread at the end of the stitches. Sammy looked skyward at the gray that seemed to be thinning, showing slivers of blue sky as the morning sun slowly pushed against its veil. A hawk glided overhead in lazy circles, its eyes piercing the landscape in the endless pursuit of prey and survival. Sammy turned his eyes back to the den and began picking at the knot of thread at the end of his stitches. Working it loose, he pulled out just enough to get his knife under it and cut off the head. Then he dug out each stitch with the point of his knife, pulling the thread back through its original path as if unlacing a shoe. A minute later, the operation was complete. He was surprised that the poking and prodding had not drawn so much as one drop of blood.
The overcast slowly relented until the sun cracked the sky with a searing light, rolling back the gray from its edges and unfurling a blue wave that chased all. Sammy could see the glint from Blaine's barrel. He wondered if they'd get lucky and see the coyotes before afternoon. It was a fair ride back to the Twin T., and he was hoping to make it before dusk.
His mind wandered to Jenny. He wanted to see her again, to talk to her and look at her and be close to her and tell her of his dreams, and hear of hers, and hold her in his arms and love her. The unexpected wave of feelings for her surprised him. So far, they had never advanced beyond chance meetings and a few conversations together. He hadn't even kissed her. Not yet.
He was snapped back to the moment by the sudden bawling of distress that cried out and reverberated with a slight echo. Sammy immediately knew what it was, but he couldn't believe he was hearing it. “Well I'll be,” he said under his breath.
“W-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h-h! Wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h!” came the cries. One after another that sounded perfectly and precisely like a bawling baby calf in distress. It was coming right from Blaine's position. Sammy knew men who could imitate calls of animals. Reuben could do every varmint in the area, but was best with his elk call. Lundy's specialty was a distressed rabbit. But Sammy had never heard anything as spot-on as what was presently coming out of Blaine. If he hadn't known Blaine was there, he'd have bet his boots that it was the genuine article.
Sammy stretched forward and retrieved his rifle. He planted his elbow and sighted in on the butte, slowly pulling from right to left to reestablish the probable exit points for the coyotes.
Blaine bawled loudly on and on and then whimpered for a bit before bawling hard again, followed by more whimpering. On and on he went with intermittent rest, then resuming with a trace of weakening in his call, as if the fight to escape some entanglement or circumstance was exacting its toll.
The coyotes did not appear, and the minutes turned long as the morning unhurriedly warmed. Blaine continued to work his distress calls with cajoling deliverance and dogged perseverance. He was determined not to stop until he had imposed his will, compelling the coyotes to pursue what they most wanted: fresh meat.
In an instant the two coyotes appeared, trotting along the front of the butte, their heads hung low with ears up and purpose in their movement. Both men now had their sights trained on them. They instinctively waited for the pair to clear the butte and hopefully stop. The coyotes were moving in the general direction of Blaine, who was artfully hidden. Blaine fell silent. The coyotes paused for a moment, as if wary. The crisp report of Sammy's rifle cut the air and was followed straight away by Blaine's shot. Both men found the mark.
Sammy walked up on Blaine who was already skinning one of the coyotes. “Good shootin’.”
“You too.”
“Where'd you ever learn to make a calf call like that? I've known you about two years, and I never heard you do that before.”
“Guess I never had reason to when you was around. This is the first time we worked together on a huntin’ job.”
“That's the best calf call I ever heard. Thing like that could come in handy. You got others you can do?”
“Yep, I got a few others. Learned wild turkeys back growin’ up in Missoura. Them's my best. I reckon I got a few that's a close second. Calves is in that bunch. I was beginnin’ to wonder if them coyotes was havin’ any of it. I thought my voice was gonna give out ‘fore they showed, but I didn't feel like waitin’ all day for a shot. Figured you rather a-seen ‘em sooner than later too … so kept at it.”
“Hell, if I'd known you could call like that, I'd a made you start from the get-go.”
“Yep, guess so. Sorry for the deeeelay.”
“You use the hides?” Sammy asked, pulling his
knife and dropping down in front of the other coyote to skin it.
“Yep. I generally collect ‘em when I shoot ‘em. Sell ‘em or fashion somethin’ out of ‘em. Done a few blankets … maybe make a coat. You don't want that other hide?”
“Nope, she's all yours.”
The men quickly finished the skinning, then washed the blood and hair off their hands with some canteen water and went to collect their horses. They rode at a good pace for the first hour until they came to woods and slowed to a trot.
Blaine pulled the makings from his shirt pocket and began to roll a smoke, holding the paper in one hand while tapping the tobacco out with the other. His saddle bounce was causing him to miss badly, as most of the tobacco went elsewhere than to the paper. “Whoa! Hold up, Seesaw. I'm losin’ all my tabackee,” he said to his horse, who felt the constriction of the cowboy's legs and immediately came to a stop. “Take me just a flash.” He had it rolled up in seconds, then fished out a stick match and sparked it off his belt buckle. He took a long drag and casually looked about, noting the occasional patches of drifted snow against the mostly bare ground. “You ridin’ to Denver or takin’ stage coaches? Or is there trains runnin’ anywheres about in these parts?”
Sammy was taking a pull off his canteen. He raised his left forearm and wiped his shirt cuff across his mouth, then screwed the cap back on. “Word is, they finished that transcontinental railroad last year. Runs clear across the United States from the east coast to the west coast. But no spur lines in this territory that I know of. The main route don't even run through Denver. Runs north of there, somewhere in Wyoming Territory. I imagine they'll run somethin’ through Albuquerque one of these years with all the beef gettin’ trailed there. No stage routes that hook up all the way neither. But even if there were, I wouldn't do it. Sit in a coach all that way? Stop or go only on their schedule? No, sir. I'd rather see the country my own way—on my horse.”
Along The Fortune Trail Page 9