* * *
Despite his comment, Tuck did know where the office was. The fact that he had never spent the night in one of the three cells visible from the doorway was a bit of a surprise, but he guessed that Marshal Turville had more important things to do than locking up drunks. Besides, his days of drinking and starting fights had ended long ago; lately, drinking left him without the motivation or energy to do anything but keep drinking. As a result, he was rarely in trouble with the law.
Deputy Mo Kanouse was a foul-tempered bull of a man who had taken an early dislike to him. Their encounters hadn’t ended with Tuck’s arrest, though; Kanouse seemed satisfied with the painful beating he had delivered. Tuck suspected that Kanouse probably didn’t want to arrest anybody because there might be paperwork involved, and a prisoner might have to be held and fed until a circuit judge visited.
On the long ride back into town, during the times Maier had finally lapsed into silence, with Hank Turville’s badge riding in his pocket like a burning coal, Tuck had thought many times that if he were actually offered the job, his first order of business would be to fire Kanouse and hire a new deputy.
Now that he had the position, though, he came to the opposite conclusion. He didn’t like the man, but Kanouse knew the town, and the people in it, far better than Tuck did. Tuck didn’t know the first thing about marshaling. He needed somebody with experience, at least until he got settled into the role and figured out where trouble might come from. He’d been an army captain; he had experience commanding people, even when they were difficult.
When he walked into the office for the first time wearing the star, he nearly changed his mind.
Kanouse was sitting behind the marshal’s desk. He had his mud-caked boots on the desktop, his arms folded over his chest, and he was chewing on the remains of a fat cigar. Flecks of tobacco clung to his lips and his whiskered chin. He tilted his head back when Tuck entered, eyed him, and said, “First time you been in a lawman’s office without chains on?”
“Get your feet off the desk, Mo,” Tuck said. “Then clean the desk off. You got mud on it.”
Kanouse glared at him, but he put his feet on the floor and wiped at the surface of the desk a couple of times with the palm of his hand, using exaggerated motions. “Better?”
“Look, I don’t know how well you and Marshal Turville worked together, Mo, but there are bound to be some changes now. I’m not him. I know you think of me as the run-down, no-good drunk you slapped around a time or two. And I don’t deny that was me. But this is me, too. I’m a soldier, an officer, and I don’t take any guff from my men. I’m glad to keep you on as a deputy. You know the town better than I do, and you know who’s likely to need watching. But you’ll treat me with the appropriate respect, or we’re like to have some serious problems.”
Kanouse took the cigar from his lips. He was heavily muscled but with a gut that spilled over his belt. He had small eyes, a flat nose, and a cruel mouth, all set in a broad face and topped by curly dark hair. “Well, that’s mighty generous of you, Marshal,” he said. “What’s your name again?”
“Bringloe. Tucker Bringloe.”
The deputy gave a low chuckle.
“Something funny?” Tuck asked.
“Nah, not really.”
“I mean it, Deputy Kanouse. We can get along and work together, or you can find a different place to work. I won’t tolerate any disrespect.”
Kanouse tongued a tobacco fleck off his lip and spat it onto the floor. “Mebbe we should have us a drink, you and me, and talk about how it’s gonna work.”
“There’ll be none of that,” Tuck declared. “No drinking on the job. Understand?”
“You sure you’re the same walkin’ whiskey vat that used to stink up Senora Soto’s?”
“Get out of that chair, Mo,” Tuck said.
The deputy hesitated long enough to make his statement, then rose.
“Come here.”
The man slowly walked closer. “You gonna hit me?”
“Not yet,” Tuck said. “But don’t keep pushing me. When I do hit you, you’ll know it.”
Kanouse stopped, close enough for Tuck to have hit him if that had been his intent. He wore a defiant expression. Tuck was starting to think it was the only one he owned. “Do you want this job, Mo?”
“I like it good enough.”
“Then don’t give me any trouble. Next time you mouth off to me will be your last. Tell me you understand.”
Kanouse nodded his head once.
“Say it.”
“I understand, boss.”
“That’s better.” Tuck looked out the open door. “I’m going to take a walk, introduce myself to some of the merchants. Mind the office. And keep your damn boots off my desk.”
Chapter Twenty-one
In all the days of his life, Cale Ceniceros had never seen a prettier female.
He had driven a buckboard to Fort Huachuca to deliver a load of beef the army had contracted for. Waiting on the driver’s bench outside the quartermaster’s shop while soldiers unloaded the sides from the wagon’s bed, he caught a glimpse of her. She wore a straight skirt that was too short, revealing her ankles and a little calf, and a blouse that was too large for her, and she had brown hair that fell to the middle of her back. Instead of walking flat-footed, she seemed to put a little bounce into every step, sliding her foot along the ground and springing off it. All the while, she held onto the skirt with both hands, as if afraid it would escape. She walked like a child, Cale thought, like a girl on a warm spring day, enjoying the out-of-doors after a winter spent inside. An Apache man walked beside her, staying close, keeping one eye on her and one on their surroundings at the same time.
As he watched, she stopped and slowly turned in his direction. He looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. But after a moment he glanced back. She was staring at him, now. He shifted his gaze away again, embarrassed, but he couldn’t help risking another peek, and she still looked at him. The Apache tugged on her arm, but she pulled it free. Cale knew his cheeks were flushing. He met her gaze, and this time could not pull himself away.
“Son?”
From the impatient tone, Cale figured it was not the first time the man had tried to get his attention. He dragged his head around and saw Colonel Cuttrell standing there, hands on his hips and an impatient look on his face. “Huh? Sorry, Cutt—sorry, Colonel,” he said.
“You here to deliver or gawk, boy?”
“I … deliver, sir.”
“For the Tibbetts ranch?”
“That—that’s right, sir.” Cale was red-faced, aware that he was stammering but having a hard time catching his breath or controlling his words. “The—the J Cross T.”
Cuttrell’s right hand went to his mouth. He squeezed his lips toward each other, distorting them and reminding Cale of a fish he had caught once, then had a devil of a time working the hook free. “Yes, I thought so,” the colonel said. “Thought I recognized you. I was hoping Tibbetts would come himself. Well, you’ll have to deliver him a message for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir. I can do that.”
“Very well, boy. Tell Mr. Tibbetts that we have to cancel his contract.”
“Cancel?” Cale echoed.
“For the beef. We’ll take what you brought today, obviously. But Mr. Montclair’s offered us a much better price, and we’ll have to buy from him unless Tibbetts can beat it. And I already know he can’t.”
“Well, you gotta let him try, though, right?”
“Son, I represent the Army of the Confederate States of America. There isn’t much I ‘gotta’ do, and not many who can make me do something I don’t want to. In this case, I’ve already discussed pricing with your boss, and he told me the price I was getting was the lowest he could go. Any less, he said, would put him in the poorhouse.”
“But then what’s not selling to the army gonna do to him? That’d be worse, right?”
“According to him, no. He seemed to th
ink selling to us at a loss would be worse than not at all. I’ve already told Montclair I’ve accepted his offer, and he starts delivery next week. Run along and tell Tibbetts what I said.”
Cale swallowed hard, fighting back the tears he didn’t want to shed in front of a military man. Or that girl. He risked a quick glance around to see if she was still in sight.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Cuttrell asked.
“Huh?” Cale’s cheeks caught fire again. “Yes, sir, I reckon she is.” He wanted to ask about her, who she was, why he’d never seen her before. And where she had gone, since she was no longer in sight. But he didn’t dare question the colonel about that. When he was silent for a few moments, Cuttrell walked away.
Cale checked the wagon’s bed. The sides of beef were gone. There were no soldiers lounging around, no one to ask.
And as curious as he was, he was more sad and scared for Mr. Tibbetts. Terrified, really. He couldn’t begin to predict how his employer would react to the news. The army contract was the steadiest money he had coming in. It wasn’t a lot, but he could count on it being regular. Especially with everything else that had been going on, this news would just about destroy the man, and Mrs. Tibbetts, too.
And he had to deliver it. He could hardly bear the thought.
What might Mr. Tibbetts do?
He only knew it wouldn’t be good.
* * *
Cale was hiding something. The young man had been neck-deep in chores since his return from Fort Huachuca. He hadn’t said two words in a row, and he couldn’t meet Jed Tibbetts’s eyes.
Finally, Tibbetts tired of waiting. He found Cale outside the henhouse, where he’d just spread twice as much feed as needed and was sitting with his back against a fence post and sorrow in his eyes, staring into the far distance.
“Cale,” he said. “What is it?”
Cale blinked a couple of times, looked at him. The wide-eyed innocence was an act, easily seen through. “What’s what, Mr. Tibbetts?”
“What’s eatin’ at you, son? You been down in the dumps since you come back from the fort.”
As if something fascinating had just taken place near his feet, Cale wrenched his gaze away. “It’s … nothin’.”
“I think we both know it’s somethin’,” Tibbetts countered. “Out with it, boy.”
When the young man lifted his head again, there were tears in his eyes. “It’s the army, Mr. Tibbetts. I’m really sorry. They canceled your contract. I talked to that colonel, Cuttrell. He said Montclair give him a better deal.”
Ordinarily, Tibbetts would have corrected his grammar. He felt a certain responsibility for Cale’s upbringing, although the boy had only come to them a couple of years earlier. But the news hit him like he’d been gutshot. Montclair? That Easterner had already priced him out of the army’s horse contract. Tibbetts had supplied the fort for years, and those times had been fine. Without that, the beef contract was the one sure thing he had going, the difference between barely hanging on and complete ruination. He had given the army the best price he could, just to keep selling to them.
After Cale filled him in, he left the young man sobbing quietly with just the hens for company, and walked toward the house. He’d have to tell Edith, to warn her that they were losing a meaningful piece of business. On the way, he imagined a picture of himself as if he had genuinely been gutshot, lying on his side in the dirt as the life bubbled out of him. The pain would be intense, but surely not more so than he already felt. He would grow gradually colder, would start to shiver as death neared. His feet would beat a rapid drumroll, his breathing would become shallow, but soon enough it would all be over. No more worries about the ranch, about money. No more feeling like he had disappointed Edith or let down the men who worked for him. No more concerns at all, at least in this life.
Tibbetts shook his head to clear it. The vision had been so true, so solid, that it had seemed momentarily real.
More frightening still, it had seemed appealing.
He found Edith in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for stew. She took one look at him and knew something was wrong, so she laid the knife on the carving board with the carrots. “What is it, Jed?”
He started to speak, but then words failed him. He pulled a chair out from under the table and sank heavily onto it. After a couple of minutes, he was able to repeat everything Cale had told him.
When he was done, he felt wrung out. His big hands hung loosely at his sides, and all the energy had left him. He had thought Edith would be crying, frantic, but she just stood by the counter, dry-eyed, her mouth a grim but determined line.
“So you’re giving up?” she asked.
“What choice do I have? Without the army contract—”
“Take it to a judge. You have that man’s signature on a piece of paper.”
“Montclair owns every judge in the territory, Edith.”
“Go talk to Cuttrell yourself, then,” she said. “What he told the boy doesn’t mean a thing. Unless he’s talking to you, you ought to consider the contract still in force. See if he can tell you to your face that he’d prefer Jasper Montclair’s business. If that doesn’t work, talk to Mr. Harrell again. See if Senora Soto will increase her order for the saloon. Talk to Mr. Maier and see if he won’t buy more for the grocery. You have to make them understand that Montclair means to be the only rancher in the territory, and if he is, he’ll be able to charge whatever he wants. If they want competition, they’ve got to help others stay in business.”
Tibbetts was dumbfounded. He hadn’t thought of it like that. He had just assumed that without the army’s trade, he was finished. But maybe there was a way to fight back. Maybe he could convince Cuttrell to change his mind, or drum up customers elsewhere. Or both.
Edith had always been the rock he relied on, the stronger of them by far. The smarter, too, it appeared. He was a lucky man, that was for certain.
* * *
It was far too late in the day to go into town for business discussions. After talking with Edith for a while, he went out and stood in the yard, peering off at the Huachucas. They were shrouded in shadow, the sun having already dropped beneath the peaks. Business could wait until tomorrow—it would have to. But that meant that tonight all he could do was fret and hope Edith was right, that there were other customers out there for his beef.
And with night coming on, he had one more thing to worry over … what might happen out on the range. How many men might he lose tonight? How many head of cattle? And could the attacks be stopped before he was driven bankrupt, regardless of how many customers he had?
Once again, he thought about ending his troubles with a bullet. He couldn’t do that to Edith, though. She was strong, but she still needed him.
Anyway, she would never forgive him, and he couldn’t face an eternity of her disapproval. She was the one thing in life he had that was true and good and permanent.
He put those thoughts away, and went to wash for supper.
Chapter Twenty-two
“I should like to see the girl.”
The trooper on guard duty straightened his spine. “I was told no visitors, ma’am, except for the scout. Kuruk.”
“You know who I am, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re Mrs. Cuttrell.”
“That’s correct. The wife of the commanding officer of this fort. There are precious few women here in the first place, and none as highly ranked as me. And that girl needs a woman’s touch.”
“She’s being well cared for.”
Sadie hmmphed. “There are things about which you have no idea, soldier,” she said. “At least, I hope you don’t. Female things.”
The private blushed, and his posture returned to its earlier slump. “I’m sure you’re right, ma’am.”
“Let me pass, then. And don’t listen at the door, because you won’t like what you hear.”
He hesitated, but she had already won. The trooper lowered his weapon and stepped to the side.
There were few facilities for unmarried women on the fort, and those were fully occupied. But there were some vacant officer’s quarters, so a small cottage had been provided for her use until it could be determined where she had come from and what to do with her. Del had mentioned letting her stay if she would become a laundress, but Sadie didn’t know if anyone had discussed that with the girl. Most of the townsfolk assumed she wouldn’t have been with the mule train unless she was a sporting lady, paid to be there to service all those men. Sadie had more than a little experience herself in that area, and she would never have gone alone on such a journey. The girl was younger than her, though; perhaps she was up to the challenge.
She found it strange that her husband had allowed the Apache to become the girl’s ward and protector. A white girl, looked after by an Indian? It didn’t make sense. She wondered if the girl had made some arrangement with him, had used her wiles to get herself the freedom that she wanted. After all, an Apache couldn’t be counted on to provide any real care.
But another thought had occurred to her. From everything she’d heard, the girl was more than a little touched. Was insanity catching, like influenza? She wasn’t sure. Others might not be, either. Maybe nobody wanted to be around the girl, in case her madness spread to them. Maybe the Indian was the only one willing to risk it, and then only on Del’s orders.
Either way, Sadie wanted to see for herself what the girl was like. She tapped twice on the door, then opened it and stepped inside. “Hello, dear,” she called as she did. “Little Wing, is that your name? It’s certainly an odd one, for a white girl.”
The cottage had been occupied previously by a young captain and his wife, but he had died from complications following the bite of a scorpion, and she had returned to South Carolina after his death. From what Sadie had heard, there she had gone quite mad, and had been sent to an asylum after peeling most of the flesh from her left arm and upper torso, complaining about bugs under her skin. She had left the cottage fully furnished, and since then it had been used as a bivouac for visiting officers. Perhaps it was the perfect place for a mad girl, after all.
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