She nodded, and they rode on east. Herschel didn’t like the look of things around the home place. The ranch wasn’t being kept up like he wanted. He’d better check on the Pharrs more often. Sonny Pharr was getting good pay to keep that place up.
“You sounded upset back there,” Shultz said.
“He’s not been earning his pay. I’ll keep a better eye on him from here on. He came up here, he was the best hand I figured I could hire. Today, that place looked trashy, and the fence needed fixing.”
“My daddy said if hired hands were worth a damn, they’d own their own place.”
“Your dad knew hired help.”
They found several bunches of fat two-year-old steers. Many looked like pure shorthorns. Big stout roans and reds, they eyed the two riders suspiciously, then went back to grazing.
“I do think they’ll make big enough steers this fall. Man, they are nice,” Shultz said.
Riding past one group, Herschel noticed one of the steers. On his right side, like a cloudy letter in the red roan hair, was a large white S. Herschel pointed it out to the buyer, who agreed it was unusual.
All the way home, Shultz wanted to talk price, but Herschel let it ride. They’d talk again later in the season. That night, he told Marsha that he had to look in more often on their hired man.
“You think he’s not working out?”
“We’ll see. I wasn’t too happy at what I saw today. We better get some sleep. I can handle it.”
Early the next morning, Herschel sat at the breakfast table with his three stepdaughters and his smiling wife.
“The strawberries are blooming,” Kate, the oldest, said.
“Yes, and we have to weed them today, too, before you three ride the pony,” Marsha announced.
The news drew some sour faces from the three girls.
“I thought Art might come early for breakfast,” Marsha said, going for more coffee.
“Not since he got his own wife.” Herschel chuckled. “He ain’t near as footloose as he was before.”
“She’s nice.”
“Oh, yes. But she can cook, too.”
“Will this man Anton put up a fight over you evicting him?”
“I don’t really care what he does besides leaving the county.” Herschel stood up over his chair. “I’m ready to make ice cream with fresh strawberries, aren’t you, girls?”
“Yaay!”
He smiled. “Then you all get the weeds out of them for me.”
“We will, Daddy.”
He leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I should be back by supper time. Art’s outside, I hear him.”
“You all have a nice day,” he said to the girls. “It looks wonderful outside today. Won’t be long and we can plant some other things. Mr. Stauffer has the garden plowed and with all this rain, why, I bet our corn will grow higher than Cob’s back.”
They shouted good-bye and he put on his hat and vest, and carried his gun belt in his hand, strapping it on going out the door. Marsha followed him to the porch, and she spoke softly after him. “Be careful. We need you.”
He looked back and nodded with a wink. Earlier, he’d saddled and brought Cob around front. The tall roan stood hitched at the rack. With a cordial word to Art, he gathered the reins with a hold on the saddle horn. In an instant, he knew when his leg swung over the big gelding’s rump that the horse was ready to buck. He checked him, getting his right foot set in the stirrup.
His move was enough for Cob. The powerful gelding took it as an advantage and tried to bury his head between his knees. Ready for him, Herschel hauled up on the reins and gouged him in the sides with his spurs at the same time. Cob’s halfhearted hops ended with stiff landings on all four legs, but he never really got as high as he wanted to.
With Herschel threatening him all the time, Cob finally settled down, and began a swinging walk he could keep up all day.
“I sure thought you were going flying this morning,” Art said, amused.
“Naw, I ain’t got wings.”
“I love that horse,” Art said. “But he’d sure throw me about every time I tried to ride him if I owned him.”
“I got Cob with some young horses I had bought when I was on that place down on Horse Creek and breaking horses for living. He was a long two-year-old then and, man, he was a handful. When I got him dusted off, several folks wanted to buy him and they tried him. He wiped them out and they brought him back, so I finally decided I’d keep him. Never regretted it for a day.”
“He don’t buck every time?”
“That’s right. Those are the good days. But he seldom bucks more than once except when you resaddle him. That’s why I don’t unsaddle him in the daytime.”
Art laughed. “Helluva tough horse.”
Herschel agreed.
They rode till mid-morning, and then found the lane that led to Anton Pleago’s place. Some shaggy-coated Indian ponies nickered at their horses from a stomped-out haystack ring. They were winter-thin, and with them was a gray-faced Jersey cow that was bawling. A man could have used her hips for a hat rack.
A skinny white sow came running over, grunting like the two men might feed her. Then some black Indian dogs set in to barking as if awakened by the pig. They were the slinking kind that no one ever fed—they found their own meals. The crude log cabin and sheds were set in a grove of stunted pines. Smoke came out the tin chimney pipe. But no one was in sight.
Herschel reached back and adjusted his Colt. Hell only knows how this will go.
FOUR
THURMAN saddled the sorrel before the sun came up. With the cinch tight, he turned at the sound of soft footsteps and dropped the stirrup. With the reins in his hand, he faced Mary Horsekiller in the half-light.
“I will make some food and coffee,” she said, standing before him wrapped in a blanket. “Sorry I did not hear you get up.”
“Only if you let me pay you.”
“Pay me?”
“Yes, pay you for the food.”
“Come.” She tugged on his sleeve. “We can talk about it while I make us some food.”
“And I will pay you.”
“So you will pay me.” She shrugged and pulled the blanket tight. She was obviously not dressed underneath it.
They went back to the house.
Once inside, she said, “Excuse me, I must put my clothes on.”
“Sure, I won’t look.”
She laughed and shook her head in dismay. “Where will you go from here?”
“There’s a man I once knew, Fred Hayes, who lives with a Choctaw woman north of here.”
“Smart man.”
“You know him?” He turned and frowned at her.
She finished buttoning up her dress. Wiggling down the bottom half, she pushed her breasts out and smiled big at him. “No. I mean he is smart for having an Indian wife.”
He dropped his chin and shook his head amused. “Why?”
“They are easy to please. They have the power to make you well when you are sick.”
“Oh, that’s what you mean.”
“I bet your friend would agree.”
“No telling about him.”
She began heating grease, and soon dropped dough off a spoon into the hot oil.
From his seat on the ladder-back chair, he half raised up to look at her cooking. “What is that?”
“Indian fry bread.”
“It’s different than doughnuts,” he said.
“Yes.”
Her fry bread proved to be delicious. But her coffee made from scorched barley was too bitter for him. Seeing the face he made at his first sip, she quickly shaved some tea from a bar and fixed him a cup of it. It wasn’t half bad. They laughed through the meal and when he finished, he tried to remember the last time he’d laughed at a meal. What had made it so hilarious? He couldn’t remember exactly what they’d laughed at. It was some kind of free spirit they’d shared.
In the end, he gave her money to buy some real cof
fee, and she walked him to the horse.
“What I told you about Chickenhead is not funny,” she said, looking down at her bare toes. “He and his gang are bad men. Watch yourself until you are well out of these mountains and beyond the Canadian River.”
“I will, and thanks for everything. I’ve got to find my son. I think I may have a wonderful chance for a second life. If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I’d stay much longer.”
She squared her shoulders. “I will be here.”
“Don’t turn down a good man’s offer. I may never be able to ride this way again.”
“Go,” she said. “Before I cry . . .”
Mounted, he sent Red northward. Once he twisted in the saddle to look back, but she was gone. He turned around, disappointed she wasn’t there so he could have had one last sight of her to remember.
At mid-morning, a thundershower began building in the hills to his left, and he decided to find a place to stop over and wait it out. Across the forest floor the mayapples, short, umbrella-like weeds, were ready for the rain. A deserted home place on the right seemed like it might offer some protection until the storm passed. He reined Red off the road through a field of head-high sprouts that had once been farmland. The shake-roof barn looked like the best choice. He dismounted and led Red inside.
Big drops soon struck the cedar shakes and thunder rolled down the valley. A drop or two made him move a few feet to a drier location, but even with a leaky roof, it wasn’t as bad as being out in the heavy downpour. In a half hour, the storm moved on, the sun came out, and he remounted. Jogging Red, he headed for Dutch Creek. Fred had mentioned that location. Thurman might not be able to find him there, but he’d look some.
On the road, he met two men in long-tail canvas coats. One drove a wagon and a team of horses; the other rode a proud cut bay horse that kept acting like a nasty stud toward Red. Both men were in their thirties and wore mustaches, and he had no doubt they were the law. For a second, he remembered about the last bottle of whiskey in his saddlebags
“Good day,” the one on the bay said, reining up like they wanted to talk. He was hard-eyed and his mouth made a small line over a sharp chin. “Afternoon, mister. That’s a spanking fine horse you’ve got there.”
“Same to you. He’s a barb. His ancestors came from North Africa with the Moors to Spain.”
“I seen some of them somewhere’s before, ain’t you, Hank?”
The friendlier of the two, who sat on the spring seat of the tarped-down wagon, nodded and grinned. “He’s Deputy U.S. Marshal Levitt Morris and I’m Hank Youree from Fort Smith.”
Thurman put his hand on the saddle horn cap. “Thurman Baker’s my name. Guess you two’re looking for Charlie Chickenhead?”
Morris reined up his bad-mannered horse and frowned hard at Thurman. “What do you know about him?”
“Folks been warning me about him since I crossed the Red River. Said that he was prowling around these parts avoiding you marshals.”
“We’ll get him,” Morris said with a toss of his head toward the south. “There been any sighting of him back down there?”
“No actual ones that I heard about. Just lots of folks are afraid of him.”
“Well, if he’d ever seen that fancy horse of yours, you’d known he was around. Hell, Hank, let’s go back to Ditch Creek and spend the night. You headed there, Baker?”
“Is there a Dutch Creek around here?”
They shook their heads.
He smiled. “I guess that’s what he meant. Ditch Creek. You know a Fred Hayes?”
“Yeah, a Texan married him a Choctaw woman so he could graze his damn cattle up here.”
“He used to be a nice guy.”
“He’s all right,” Morris said. “I fought you damn Rebs.”
Thurman shook his head in disbelief. “Hell, that’s been a long time ago.”
“Not for me. I ain’t forgiving or forgetting one damn thing about it either.” He spit off the side of his stomping horse and wiped his mouth on the back of his glove. “So you know where you stand with me.”
“Excuse me, General Phil Sheridan, I’m riding on. I wouldn’t want that smoldering fire in your belly catching a blaze.”
“Aw, hell, he had a bad time back then,” Hank said. “Hold up. We’ll make camp at Ditch Creek.”
“Thanks, but just the same,” Thurman said, riding past him, “I ain’t staying where I ain’t wanted.”
“Aw, damn,” Hank swore. “You and your Rebel complaining. . . .”
Thurman found a small crossroads store before dark. He bought a hunk of sausage cut off a new tube, a half loaf of freshly baked bread, and a can of peaches from the tall man in an apron behind the scarred counter. His purchases also included five pounds of corn for Red. After he paid the man, he asked, “You know a Fred Hayes?”
“He lives at Sullyville. Ten miles north and west of here.”
Thurman thanked him. It was too late to ride over there. He’d find him in the morning. Outside in the dimming light, he led Red into an open meadow to let him graze there. He unsaddled and hobbled him.
With his back against a big oak, he studied the darkening outlines of the sugarloaf mountaintops covered in hardwoods and some pines. He cut the sausage into slices and, wadding up the warm bread, enjoyed the garlic-sourdough flavor of the sandwiches he made. He washed them down with the sweet juice of the peaches, and savored the sounds of the night’s insects and frogs.
After supper, he found a place in the wiry grass to pour out some of the corn for Red. Soon, the gelding was chomping on the grain, and Thurman brought out his blanket and ground cloth. The canvas sheet could serve as a poncho, but he’d never thought about it earlier while dodging storms. He’d buy a new slicker first chance he got. Somewhere off in the distance, a hound dog was barking treed.
Wrapped up in the bedding and still dressed, he sat with his back to the tree. All this Chickenhead business had him on edge. If Mary had known anything. . . .
He woke with a start. Someone knelt in front of him. Then a small hand closed over his mouth. “Shush. Chickenhead and three men are close by,” Mary said.
The six-gun in his fist—he nodded. A hundred feet away in the starlight, Red was nickering to another horse.
He could make out a figure using a blanket over him for cover and sneaking on his hands and knees toward his horse’s silhouette. With his forearm, Thurman swept Mary aside and aimed down the barrel of his gun. At the red muzzle blast, with the acrid gun smoke in his nose and eyes, Thurman threw back the blanket and half rose. Two guns out of nowhere answered him, and he felt the mule-like kick of a bullet hit his left side. They were getting away with his horse.
Mary gasped. “Let them have him.”
He aimed, but all he could see were outlines of horses. They’d cut loose Red’s hobbles and were leaving the meadow with Red and probably Mary’s horse, too. No chance to shoot them. The outlaws made yipping sounds while thundering away. He holstered the Colt and reached over to feel his left side. His hand came back sticky and dark. He’d been shot.
“You’re wounded,” she said. “Sit down.”
“Listen—listen,” he said, sinking to his butt on the ground. “There’s money sewed in my boots and money sewed in my coat. It’s—yours if I don’t make it.”
“Don’t talk now.” She put a wad of the blanket under his head. He felt dizzy and fought to not pass out. The pain in his side grew to a hot fire.
“You’re not going to die. . . .”
What was that hissing sound? Damn—he drew up at the sharp pain in his left side. Where was he? Lying down on his back and looking up at the blue sky laced with large green leaves, he decided he was being carried on a travois over the road he’d come along on the day before. The end of the pole on the right side went over a rock and then dropped, jarring out an exploding shot of fire in his left side.
The travois stopped, and Mary came back and knelt beside him. “I am sorry. There was no wagon there.”
>
“Where?” He couldn’t clear his thoughts.
“Last night you shot one of Chickenhead’s gang. Billy Dog. There was a fifty-dollar reward on him, the marshal said, and he gave me a receipt. Does your side hurt much?”
“I’ll live.”
“The doctor said it was good you had that whiskey. I used it to clean the wound.”
“I could stand some whiskey now.”
She shook her head. “I used all of it. I have some laudanum. Then you can sleep. It will be after dark before we get to my place.” She ran off, and quickly brought back a spoon and bottle. “Here.”
It tasted awful. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“You rest. Get well. Marshals went to find your horse.”
“Yes, yes, I’d . . . like him. . . .”
It was raining when they reached her cabin in the dark of night. She pulled him up off the travois, and he was not much help. Going toward the house, he looked at two long ears and thought jackrabbit. Obviously, she’d brought him there behind a mule.
“Your mule?” he asked with his right arm slung over her shoulder for support.
“Yours.” She laughed in the rain. “It was all I could buy with your money.”
He nodded, wanting to laugh, and then they half fell over the stoop getting inside the cabin doorway. He owned a mule. It hurt him to even chuckle. When they recovered their balance, she pushed him toward the bed.
Seated on the edge too dizzy to argue, he felt her pull off his boots and socks. She talked all the time about how he needed rest to recover—it was all like she was miles away—outlaw—reward—a mule—his mule brought him back there—he could see the head-tossing Red—his fine mane lifted by the wind—he had no time for this . . .
“Wake up. Wake up, you’ve been dreaming. Who’s Tomas?”
He raised up in the bed looking for them—the three boys. A hot flash of pain in his side made him flinch. “One of my boys.”
“Your son?”
“No, he worked for me.”
“You were really dreaming.”
There was daylight coming in the row of bottles that formed a window. With his fingers, he combed through his rumpled hair. “How long have I slept?”
The Sundown Chaser Page 5