by John Legg
He quietly, steadily nursed the hatred, keeping it a strong but not overwhelming passion deep down inside. He wanted it fully ripe and ready to burst when the proper time came. He tried to keep it hidden from the others, and he figured he succeeded with all but Merry. Neither he nor she said anything about it, but he could tell in her soft brown eyes that she knew what was inside of him—and what it would take to exorcise it.
Sixteen days after he had awakened for the first time since being wounded, he turned to Merry in the night, reaching hungrily for her.
“You sure, Jonas?” she asked, fright and worry in her voice.
“Yep.” He paused. “I’ve got to find out if I’ve got the strength again,” he said softly. Her muscles remained tight, and he cursed himself. Of course, he thought. After what she went through with Coakley and the others, she doesn’t want anything to do with me or any other man no more. How could I have been so blind or stupid as not to realize that before?
Culpepper rolled onto his back again, his head on the pillow. “I’m sorry, Merry,” he said quietly, cursing himself silently. “I never thought about you, and what those men had done, and how it must make you feel. I’ll leave you alone.” He flung a forearm over his eyes and tried to calm himself enough to be able to sleep.
Next to him, Merry wept quietly. Coakley’s men had robbed far more from her than she’d realized at the time. Until now, she had avoided thinking about what those animals had done to her. It had been relatively easy as she’d concentrated on helping Culpepper recover from his wound. Now that he was well on his way to doing so, it was natural that his mind would turn toward the intimate pleasures of his wife. And she had failed him. She wanted more than anything to just kill herself, thus freeing Culpepper to find a willing and deserving woman for his affections. But she could not bring herself to do that. Nor could she simply turn to him and tell him to go find another woman. And worst of all, she could not turn to him and offer herself to him the way she once had.
Culpepper was in a sour, worried mood the next day, and he left the house early. Merry, who was in no better humor, watched through the window as he slowly shuffled up the street. She wept in remorse at her inability to be a wife, in pain as she saw Culpepper take his still-labored steps, looking as if he had turned old overnight, in regret for what had been taken from her, and thus from her husband.
She choked off her tears and tried to clear away their traces when she saw Daisy and the Stantons coming. She could not hide the fact that she had been crying, though, and Daisy swiftly took her into the bedroom, sat her down, and asked sharply, “What’s botherin’ you now?”
Merry was reluctant to say anything, but after Daisy badgered her for a while, she finally spoke.
Daisy nodded, understanding. “You might want me to sympathize with you, Merry,” she said. “Maybe even tell you that everything’ll be all right. But it won’t be all right if you don’t let it.”
“Huh?” Merry was confused.
“It’s you who’ve got to get over what happened. From everything you’ve said, Jonas ain’t bothered by it. Most men would’ve thrown you out as soon as they found out you’d been had by others. It wouldn’t matter that you didn’t ask for it or that you couldn’t do anything to prevent it. They would’ve just sent you packin’. But Jonas wouldn’t do that. No. He accepted what happened and showed that he still loves you enough to overlook it.”
Daisy paused for a breather. She smiled crookedly. “Because of what I used to be and because I was so grateful for Jonas rescuin’ me, I offered myself to him as a reward,” she said, ignoring it when Merry flinched. “You know what he said to me? He turned me down flat. He said he had a wife at home that was as much woman as he ever could want.”
“But how can I forget what those...those animals did to me?” Merry asked, her voice cracking with fear and self-loathing.
“You can’t. But you can keep it from destroyin’ your life.”
“But how?” Merry almost wailed.
“I don’t know,” Daisy said fiercely. She liked Merry quite a lot, and wanted to help her, but there was little she could really do. “I just know I got over my past in a very short time, and I ain’t no better than you. If I could do it, then, by God, you can, too.” She stalked out then, leaving Merry to suffer in solitude.
Merry could do nothing that night, nor the one after, but the one after that, she turned to Culpepper in bed. “Jonas,” she said softly, running a palm along his broad back, trying to avoid the bandage that still covered his wound. “Jonas, are you awake?” She was almost shivering with fear and worry.
“Yep,” he said, not moving.
“Come to me, Jonas.” Her fear was reflected in her quivering voice.
“No, Merry,” he said. He was not bitter, just heartbroken. And enraged, not at his wife, but at those who stole his wife’s lovingness. “It’s all right, though.”
“No, it’s not. Now, turn around here and take me,” she ordered. Her voice softened a little. “Please, Jonas, I need you to do that. For my self-respect, and for our marriage.”
Culpepper turned to face her. “You sure?” he asked, gazing into her hurting eyes.
“More than anything.” She fought to keep all her muscles from tightening as he ran his hands gently along her body. She kept her eyes open, locked onto his face, even when they kissed, just so that she could always remember he was the one who was with her, so she could see the love on his face.
She decided later—much later—that she could love her husband freely once again. And it came as a great relief to her. She would never forget what those men did to her, how dirty they had made her feel. But she could put those men, and the things they had done, out of her mind, separate them from her husband and his loving caresses. She wrapped herself around Culpepper, sighed, and fell asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Culpepper rode out of Silverton in the darkness. Bear trotted alongside, seemingly happy to be on the trail once more. It was close to the autumnal equinox, and at Silverton’ s nine-thousand-foot altitude, it was cold, so Culpepper wore his long, heavy bear-fur coat. No one looking at him these days could tell that he had been on death’s door a little more than a month ago.
Only three days ago he had gone to see Wilson Pennrose for the first time since he’d gotten back to Silverton. He did not like being beholden to anyone, particularly to someone he was not all that fond of. But he had to offer his thanks to Pennrose. He might like to think that he could have recovered on his own, but he was not sure of that. So he swallowed his pride and made the now-long walk to Pennrose’s office.
Pennrose was alone in the boardroom, much to Culpepper’s relief. The sheriff figured after a moment that someone must have told Pennrose he was headed in this direction and Pennrose told the others to leave. It was a nice gesture, since if Pennrose had been planning to gloat, he’d have wanted to do it in front of the others.
Pennrose rose, smiling widely, and came forward, hand outstretched. “Sheriff,” he said, with seemingly real pleasure in his voice.
“Mister Pennrose,” Culpepper said, shaking his hand.
“Sit, sit,” Pennrose said, waving to a chair. “Would you like a drink? Or has Doctor McQuiston put that out of limits for you?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d as soon stand. I’ve been on my tail quite long enough to suit me. And, by God, I would like a drink. It’s been a time. The doc ain’t said anything about it, but if he was to object, I’d be forced to arrest him on charges of interferin’ with a lawman in the sworn pursuit of his duties.” Pennrose laughed, poured Culpepper a drink, and handed it to him. He got one for himself and then he stood next to his chair. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“First, you can have a seat. Just because I’m standin’ doesn’t mean you have to.” When Pennrose had smiled and sat, Culpepper said, “I don’t quite know how to express my gratitude for all you done for me and my wife, Mister Pennrose. You went far beyond what was called for.”<
br />
Pennrose flushed, then smiled. “You might think, Sheriff, that I did it to get some hold over you, or to have you in my debt. But I swear on my dear departed mother’s grave that such is not the case. For too damn long I treated you too lightly; got caught up in my own self-importance. But when those bastards—ones I’d let out of jail—did what they did to you and Mrs. Culpepper, I became something of a changed man, Sheriff. I helped as much as I did since it was I who was in your debt, but had been too damned stupid to realize it. I hope you can forgive me.”
Culpepper was dumbfounded, and didn’t quite know what to say. He was a little suspicious that Pennrose was trying to play him for a fool, though he had no idea what purpose that would serve. It was just so hard to believe that Pennrose was speaking the truth. “Well, I’d say we’re about even now, Mister Pennrose,” he finally allowed.
“Call me Wilson, please. And I’m not sure we’re even yet. After all, there’re still those outlaws to catch. Both gangs—Coakley’s and Ellsworth’s.”
“To tell you the truth, Wilson, Ellsworth’s gang doesn’t mean a darn thing to me now. I come across them, I’ll arrest them, or kill them. But right now I’m not lookin’ for them. I want Coakley and his bunch, after what they did to my brother and to Merry.”
“But they were the start of all this,” Pennrose protested.
“I know that well enough. I’ll eventually get to Ellsworth and his men. After I take care of Coakley.”
Pennrose nodded, knowing it would do no good to argue. “When are you leaving?”
“Three, four days, I suppose.”
“Good. I’ll have a posse ready. Fifty men, do you think?”
“I don’t want your posse, Wilson. This is a job I aim to do myself.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jonas.”
Culpepper shrugged.
“I have plenty of men at my command.”
“I know you do, but your men have no stake in this.”
“Please reconsider, Jonas. Good Lord, man, I don’t want you getting killed when we’ve just got you back among the living. And if you won’t think of yourself, think of your wife, and your friends, who’ll miss you if you get yourself killed in some foolhardy adventure.”
Culpepper was silent for a little, then nodded reluctantly. “All right, Wilson. But only twenty-five men. Fifty’d be far too many to manage on the trail.”
“Excellent. Now, when do you want to leave?”
“Today’s Monday, right?” When Pennrose nodded, Culpepper said, “Friday mornin’. We’ll meet up over near Maguire’s store. Dawn.”
“Very good.” Pennrose actually seemed pleased. “Now, is there anything I can do for you beforehand, Sheriff?”
Culpepper though a moment, then nodded. “I’d be obliged if you had some men escort Mister and Miz Stanton back to San Miguel.”
“Tell them to let me know whenever they want to leave. Or you come tell me.”
Culpepper nodded again.
“And you can take the guards off the house.”
“You sure?” When Culpepper nodded, Pennrose said, “All right.”
Culpepper swallowed his drink in one gulp, enjoying its smooth ride down his throat. “Well, Wilson, I’d best be on my way. Once again, thanks for all you’ve done.”
It wasn’t until Tuesday night, though, that Culpepper explained his plan to Merry. She was not happy with it, though she knew it must be. And she agreed not to say anything to anyone about it. On Wednesday, he told Cassidy what was going on. He also saw Pennrose on Wednesday and nodded when Pennrose asked if plans were still all set.
Two hours before dawn on Thursday, Culpepper and Merry finally broke their loving embrace and rose from the bed. Culpepper ate a swift, hearty breakfast. He was just finishing when Bear’s floppy face broke into a snarl. A moment later there was a knock at the door. Culpepper answered it.
“Everything’s set, Jonas,” Art Cassidy said. “Your horse and mule are around back. The mule’s got plenty of supplies, and I made sure you had a good measure of extra cartridges.”
“I appreciate it, Art,” Culpepper said.
“It was nothin’. But I’ll tell you one thing—I’m movin’ out of Silverton if you get yourself killed. I ain’t about to face your wife.”
“I’ll be all right, Art.” He handed the man a twenty-dollar gold piece. “See you soon.”
“I sure as hell hope so.” He grinned crookedly. “Pennrose’s gonna shit when he finds out about this.”
“I know.” Culpepper was inclined to believe that Pennrose had changed, but he still couldn’t fully trust him.
Ten minutes later, Culpepper kissed Merry goodbye and swung into the saddle. He headed toward the low spot in the surrounding mountains that would eventually lead him to Red Mountain City, Ouray, and Horsefly. From there he would continue heading up the narrow valley northwest, through Montrose, Olathe, and Delta. He had no idea where Coakley was, but he figured Grand Junction was a good place to start looking for him. If Greg Riddell, the outlaw he had questioned in Westville, was telling the truth, the money Ellsworth’s gang had robbed from the train was buried someplace southwest of Grand Junction. Coakley had to know about it, and likely would be heading for there, since autumn was about to start. Coakley could recruit some gunmen in Grand Junction, and then wait for Ellsworth to arrive, hoping to follow the outlaw to the buried loot.
Culpepper pushed himself and the animals a little. He had little time, if his theory was correct, to get to Grand Junction. He also wanted to test himself a little, to see if he had regained most of his strength and stamina. By late on the second day of traveling, he came to Horsefly, and decided to spend the night there.
He had just finished unsaddling his horse at the livery stable when Marshal Sean Dowling found him.
“I heard you had ridden into town,” Dowling said. “There’s someone here you might have an interest in.”
“I’m in no mood for guessin’ games,” Culpepper said tiredly.
“Hugh McLeod’s in town.”
“Where is he?” Culpepper asked, his face suddenly tight with anger. McLeod was Mack Ellsworth’s right-hand man, and while Culpepper was less interested in Ellsworth than in Coakley, finding one of Ellsworth’s men could lead to finding Coakley.
“The Wild Horse,” Dowling said, mentioning the name of one of the saloons.
“Why ain’t he in jail?”
“He ain’t done anything in Horsefly that’s broke the law. And I ain’t paid enough to go around catchin’ folks wanted by the county sheriff or by a goddamn U.S. marshal, neither.”
“Big darn help you are.” Culpepper’s opinion of Dowling plunged. “You’d best go on back to your office while me and Bear take care of business over at the Wild Horse.” He shoved past Dowling and headed down the street toward the saloon.
He eased inside quietly and took a look around. He spotted McLeod and another man whose name he could not remember but whose face was on a wanted poster back in Silverton. They were sitting at a table near the back.
Culpepper eased a pistol out and began walking toward the two outlaws, his revolver held at arm’s length along his right leg. As he neared the table, McLeod looked up, saw the star on Culpepper’s shirt under the coat, and went for his Colt.
Culpepper shot him in the chest. By then, the other man had managed to get his revolver out, though not enough to use it. Culpepper drilled him twice—in the throat and in the forehead. He slumped sideways to the floor, blood splattering the boots of a man sitting at another table.
Culpepper kicked the table out of the way and grabbed a fistful of McLeod’s bloody shirt and pulled him up a little. McLeod was living, but hanging on only by a thread. “Listen to me, you festerin’ maggot,” Culpepper growled. “A pukin’ scoundrel of a federal marshal gone bad named Coakley knows about Ellsworth’s plan to bury the loot, and he’ll get it for sure, unless I can get to Coakley first. I got my own reasons for wantin’ Coakley, so I ain’t doin’ this out of a
ny love of you and your skunk friend Ellsworth.”
McLeod knew he was dying and figured he had nothing to lose by speaking. His breath rattled around in his chest as he spoke, but he managed to get all the words out. “Southwest of Grand Junction,” he gasped. “Monument Canyon. Up on a high rocky ridge, like part of a small mountain range, a few miles in, there’s a real twisted-up tree, all bent around itself from the wind. Ten paces west of the tree.”
“That’s the first decent thing you’ve ever done, I’d wager, maggot,” Culpepper said icily. He shoved McLeod back down, pulled the outlaw’s Colt out, emptied it, and then tossed the revolver away. He dropped his own six-gun into his holster, then reached into McLeod’s shirt pocket and found a small wad of bills. He peeled off twenty-five dollars, which he held in his left hand. He shoved the rest of the money into his pocket.
Culpepper turned and spotted Marshal Dowling standing by the door. He strode that way, people getting out of the way of the mean-looking sheriff and the even meaner-looking mastiff. Culpepper dropped the money on the floor at Dowling’s feet. “That’ll cover their burials,” he snapped.
Culpepper hit the trail hard the next day, and within a week was in Grand Junction. The morning after, he headed southwest, going for Monument Canyon. It took two days of careful looking around before he thought he spotted the place McLeod had mentioned. He stopped and tied his horse off to a small juniper and then worked his way up to a flat on the ridge. Then he spotted his quarry.
Culpepper stopped behind a rock next to another bent and twisted cedar and petted Bear. Coakley was there, as was Neil Corcoran and another of Coakley’s men who had been at the cabin in Westville. Ellsworth and another outlaw also were there, which surprised Culpepper. But by the way they were sitting comfortably and chatting with each other, the five evidently had thrown in together to split the money. Or else they had been in cahoots all along. Right now, Culpepper didn’t much care.