Rakeheart

by Rusty Davis

  “Nope.”

  The cloud Sherman puffed was a lively expression of his anger at being defied.

  “Unless I’m going there as your official representative . . .”

  Sherman snorted.

  “Don’t want no one to know what I’m doin’, and I don’t want to arrive in this Rakeheart place with everyone knowing you sent me. Only way people talk is if they don’t think it matters.”

  Sherman started to shout him down but abated after a brief war of wills convinced him that Kane would do as he pleased no matter what Sherman ordered him to do.

  Kane rose and went to the map behind Sherman’s desk. It took a while to find the right place. Then he traced a path from St. Louis westward.

  “This place Denver. Rail goes there. Not that far from Wyoming. I’ll buy a horse.” He paused. “You’ll buy a horse. No forts. No soldiers. You got a killer running loose up there, I don’t want it advertised I’m looking for him, or I might as well wear a target. There’s a telegraph somewhere. I’ll let you know.”

  Sherman puffed on the concept, let it ride. Either trust a man or don’t give him the job.

  “Kane. Not much out there. Courts. Sheriffs. Territory is stretched thin. Army is what law there is in most places. I want justice. No idea if there are ten judges in the territory. Might be two. Not worried about that. Can’t have willful murder. Town jails there might be outhouses from what I hear. Flimsy. This is to be settled. Justice. Final. Understand?”

  Kane nodded. He rose.

  Sherman puffed repeatedly. “You have done good work, Kane. Might want to look out there for the future.”

  Kane was puzzled.

  “Reconstruction won’t last much longer. Grant won’t run next year. Not much support for it. Time to end it. Army leaves, no more work there for you. South will reclaim the land, and then we will see what happens. There’s an account here with your pay. Never touched. You’re what? Twenty-five?”

  Kane shrugged. Shy a couple of years, but close enough.

  “Near an age to settle down. Might buy land, or whatever you want. Texas might be too hot for you now anyhow. I guess you did your job too well.”

  The general was right. Six years working for Sherman in Louisiana, Arkansas, and mostly Texas meant a lot of men knew him. He wondered when he killed Delacroix if the man found him out or if all the Klans and Knights knew they were being infiltrated and were on guard. He’d had the feeling he was being watched extra carefully from the start. If Sherman thought it was time, then it was time.

  When the army left for good, scores would be settled. He didn’t need to be one. The part of Texas that had been Comanche country was the only place he had ever wanted to settle, but maybe that was not a good idea. First, this. Then worry. Sherman might change his mind.

  “Wyoming it is,” he said at last. “Wire you from Denver, and when there’s something to say. Not writing letters. Too many folks read ’em.”

  “I have money for the widow.” He handed Kane a thick envelope.

  Kane was puzzled. There had been talk of pensions for men infirm from the war, but not for every soldier who fought. Then he realized what he had been missing. Sherman’s real family was the men he marched with. This was Sherman’s own money.

  “I’ll get it to her.”

  “Make sure she’s not involved.” Kane’s eyes met Sherman’s. “I lost a man who thought of me as his friend, Kane. I barely know the woman’s name. He rarely wrote of her. He told me about Rakeheart, and its growth, and his plans. He told me about his son. There is a daughter, but she may not be his. Don’t recall her name, and he didn’t say much about her. If that woman killed her husband, Kane, or she was part of a plot, you must not let the fact that she is a woman dissuade you from justice.”

  “He send you a picture of all of them?”

  Sherman shook his head.

  “Not easy to send things through the mail out there, Kane,” he said, defending Wilkins.

  Kane wondered. Man who keeps half of his family out of a picture is hiding something. He wondered what it was. He thought of telling Sherman what was on his mind. No. Man lost someone. If the man he buried wasn’t the man who lived, let it rest. Folks who praised unvarnished honesty never saw it at work.

  Sherman stuck out his hand. Kane took it.

  It occurred to Kane this might be the last time he saw the red-haired man who had plucked him from prison and made him whatever he was today. He ought to feel something. He didn’t.

  Beginnings begin with endings. He wondered which awaited in Wyoming.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hall County, Wyoming, was a rugged place. He’d ridden the Panhandle a few times. This felt tougher—plateaus that ran for miles; giant tables of rock. Far away there were mountains that poked up purple against the horizon; once he was sure they were white-topped. Panhandle wind was always ready to blow you to kingdom come. Days of nothing to make you forget the days when you could not walk upright against it. Out here, it was a solid, eternal presence. Wind never stopped, but the world wasn’t ever giving ground. It was the place you figured would last forever if everything else crumbled. Massive pines in some places where the creeks rushed with water; dry flatland with knee-high bleached grass in others. Cattle country. Horse country. Not much farmland he’d seen so far.

  The land had grown rockier as he had gone farther west, and the people harder to match. The train had stopped where it was scheduled, if not when, and a few dozen other places as well. If Kane never took one again, it would be all the same. Noisy. Dirty. Crowded. Drunks. He hated drunks. The friendly ones were the worst. Let a man be.

  The West grew rawer as he traveled. Farmers found it hard to pass Kansas by. Men running from something found it easy to drift. Dreamers and skulkers; prophets and thieves. Obsessed with land. With Indians. With losing out on whatever it was everybody was going West to find. Denver tried to be New York when it wasn’t a frontier town. All he wanted to do was leave it behind.

  He had taken his time after Denver. It had been years since there was time to meander along a trail without wondering who might be on it. This land was bold; sunsets that flamed for hours and a night sky under a dome even bigger than the sky felt in Texas. If you could not talk to God under a sky this big, you never could. Maybe Sherman was right. Maybe this place was big enough for people like him.

  He’d ridden six days; met someone only on one of them. At times he knew there were watchers, probably some were red and others were white, but they all kept their distance.

  Rakeheart was below him now, along some creek; he’d forgotten the name. They all seemed to have buffalo in them or deer or some such.

  He stopped near the edge of a plateau that overlooked the not-too-distant town. He’d stopped at a couple of others. Frost Springs. Gray Flats. Towns seemed insubstantial. They were small, and their rickety buildings that usually lacked much paint, if they had any at all, seemed fragile amid rocks that spoke of looming mountains and rugged hills that must have been carved by the wind.

  Windy. It was always windy here. Grit, dust, and cold now and then, even in the middle of summer. It felt every bit as far from civilization as it was. Some days farther.

  He ran his fingers through the mane of the horse he’d bought in Denver. They’d had a few days to get to know each other. Horse could run; didn’t mind when Kane shot a rifle off of him. Understood what Kane said. Seemed to.

  He sat on the horse’s back and looked. Town had a main street; ten or twelve blocks of buildings. Street dog-legged a bit. A few small houses to the west. White building set apart. Just about the only thing painted other than a few signs. Had to be a church. Small church. No school. People moving. Seemed like a lot of people for a place that size. He untied the rawhide that tied down his gun in the holster. Lifted it out and set it back. Where there were people, there was trouble. Always.

  Railroad moved from the southeast to the northwest along the edge of the town. Pens for stock by the tracks. Trails co
ming and going. Not roads. Nothing but hard-packed dirt where the repeated travel of horses, wagons, and men had made a mark on the earth.

  He approached his task without enthusiasm. He wasn’t a detective; Cump Sherman could have called in the Pinkertons, but some reason Sherman did not share made him keep this private. This was beyond his abilities. Usually, the gangs and thieves showed their colors after a while. Other than men who killed because they liked killing, murderers didn’t always cooperate. He wondered idly if he simply rode on, let this one go, if ol’ Sherman would find him. He knew the answer. Sherman probably had crows reporting back every day.

  The horse snorted at something it smelled on the wind that Kane did not. “C’mon, Tecumseh,” he called the horse, smiling every time he heard the name. “Guess it’s time for us to earn our pay.”

  The trail from the hill country wound down to the flatland that now seemed to stretch forever to the north. He took it slow. No comings or goings. The flatland was empty. Man trying to not be noticed can’t help but be seen unless he keeps to the hills and the patches of trees that popped up for no good reason. He felt uneasy. Exposed. A shiver. Silly notion. It was only another place. Sherman’s demand for justice was only another mission. He hadn’t shaved on the way, so that anyone looking for a clean-shaven man they knew in Texas would not find him out here in Wyoming.

  No one seemed to care that he arrived. No one seemed to be in town at all, now that he was here. Odd. It had looked bustling from the hilltop.

  A mournful looking barefoot girl in overalls was standing outside the stables. She tried to smile at Kane, but there was nothing in it. Young and pretty with long, brown hair falling down behind a face that bore a pert nose and impudent eyes, but miserable about something.

  “Stayin’ long?” she said listlessly, staring down the street as though she was hoping to see something.

  “Not sure.” Pause. “Somethin’ goin’ on down there?”

  “Bud Franklin is going to shoot Kevin Morris,” she said as though it was the entertainment of a lifetime. “And I can’t go.”

  He grunted in reply. Not his business. Not his form of amusement. He handed her a silver dollar and went to stable Tecumseh.

  “Hey, mister, you see anyone out there?” She pointed at the vast expanse of High Plains.

  “Nope.” He could hear the grumbling.

  Kane took off the horse’s saddle and blanket. He started to brush Tecumseh, who seemed to like it from the few times Kane had groomed the horse on the ride from Denver. Meant somebody had cared for him.

  “Mister, please, can you come with me down there?” she asked from the doorway. “Never seen a man gunned down, and I’m not missing it. Pa’s . . . Pa can’t be working today, and if I go and leave you here alone he’ll get awful mad when he finds out. He thinks everybody steals. He won’t ever close this fool place, but if there’s no one here and no one coming it won’t matter, will it? You’ll tell him you wanted to go if he asks? Please?”

  A gunfight. He’d seen it. Done it. A girl like her, sixteen or seventeen, she’d never understand.

  “Please, mister. Please!”

  “ ’Spose I can finish later,” he said after a moment.

  The gunfight must be a spectacle, he thought, as he walked down an empty street. The girl had run ahead as soon as they left the stable. General store had a “Closed” sign. Others were clearly shut tight.

  He turned the dog-leg corner he’d seen from the hill. He’d seen gunfight crowds before. Bigger towns. No crowd bigger than this one.

  Duckboards filled. Men, women. Lots of kids. Fools must have set a time. He’d have checked his watch if he had one. Townspeople carried watches.

  “Hey!” a boy called to him. “They’re gonna come out! Better move, mister, or you’ll get your head blowed off by Kevin.”

  “He can’t hit nothin!” the boy next to him called. The argument rose in volume.

  Kane sauntered to the side. Boy was right. Saloon doors swung as a round young man came out, his smooth, oval face flushed. Big build but running to fat even at his age. The striped shirt bulged over his belt underneath the brown leather vest. Some curls of damp, blond hair from under his hat showed how much he was sweating. Death and liquor. Quite a pair. Men either got drunk and killed each other or got drunk to go kill each other.

  A few people called to the young man as he waited by a hitching rail. Awkward. Fussing with his hat; his holster. He licked his lips a lot and looked around the street, as though someone might be coming to end all of this. He had come to a place where he did not want to be and had no idea how to get out of it except by going forward.

  The crowd quieted as a sallow-faced man emerged. Dark vest and pants; white shirt. Hat low; gun low. Walking easy. Loose. Relaxed. A man who knew his business. No drink needed; just a man good at guns.

  For a moment his eyes focused on Kane, the only other man in the street. Sizing up. As though he could smell on Kane that Kane also knew how a gun was used. But Kane was not in play. The glance ended. He moved into the street. Waiting. Snake-patient. A chore to be done and finished.

  The younger man licked his lips one more time as he looked into the center of the street. Kane could see his face glisten with sweat.

  This was not a fight. It was murder. San Antonio flashed before his eyes. He could have stopped it. Should have. Didn’t.

  Drunks and fools. Auntie Amelia said God protected them. Sometimes.

  Maybe he could fill in this one time. Penance for when he had not.

  “Hello, Bud,” he called to the patient man as he walked out to where the man who clearly had to be Bud Franklin was waiting in the bright sunshine of a clear-sky day.

  Franklin’s head snapped at hearing his name from a stranger. His eyes bored in on Kane, but he made no reply.

  The younger man now quickly stepped forward. Pride mattered more than death. The rules. Live by ’em. Die by ’em. He walked up to Kane as though he wanted a round with Kane before taking on the man he had promised to meet. Kane turned to face him.

  “Whyn’t you tell me what this is about, Kevin?”

  The young man was clearly surprised Kane knew who he was. He shot a look at his waiting antagonist as though fearful the man would shoot him as he talked.

  “Turning coward?” called Franklin.

  “Get out of my way,” blustered Morris, shoving Kane.

  Mutterings. A restive crowd not getting their show. End it.

  Kane drew his own gun and pointed at Franklin. “Lose the gun.”

  “This is not your business,” Franklin said.

  “Is now.”

  “The world’s better off without him.”

  “Might well be, but this is plain and simple murder, friend. The world will be without you if that gun don’t hit the ground soon.”

  Franklin glared. Kane stared back. Kane could tell Franklin had calculated survival before by the way the man placidly reached down and pulled the gun from its holster, making sure Kane wouldn’t go off by mistake.

  “Toss it here.”

  Franklin did. It landed in a puff of dust.

  “Kevin, the same.” The young man was puffing up to fight. Franklin was probably right, Kane thought. Too late now.

  “Try not to shoot your foot off doin’ it,” Kane said as the young man seemed unable to respond. Somebody in the crowd snickered.

  The younger man paused, then reached down and dropped the gun in the dirt. He kept eyeing Franklin, as though expecting some trick.

  Kane gestured with his gun. Morris stepped toward Franklin, moving closer as the gun kept motioning him toward his antagonist.

  “You boys got that bad a grievance, beat each other up if you want. Not the circus the good folks wanted, but it might entertain them a spell.” Both faces looked revolted at the idea.

  Kane looked at Franklin. “Or keep travelin’ if that’s how you make your livin’.”

  “You are making a mistake, mister,” Franklin said.


  “Nothin’ new.”

  “You don’t know what you are doing. This is not over, fella.”

  Kane nodded. Sooner or later, Franklin would find a man to kill; Morris would bluster into a scrape too deep. By then, Kane hoped he would be long gone from Wyoming.

  “Never is,” said Kane. “Not watchin’ a fool get killed for bein’ a fool. Not here. Not now. All there is, fella. Let it ride. Not personal. Just one of them things. Might change my mind when I get to know your friend.”

  “I could call that bag of fat a lot of things, maybe liar, cheat, or spoiled brat, but friend ain’t one of them.” Franklin looked disdainfully at Morris. “Don’t ever count on being this lucky again.” He moved away from the younger man, who seemed to be uncertain whether he had won or lost.

  Franklin was studying Kane.

  “ ’Spose there’s a good reason.”

  “Hope so,” said Kane. They were eye to eye, barely two feet apart.

  “Do I get my gun?” asked Franklin.

  “Not a collector,” replied Kane. “Keep it where it belongs, and let the fool boy go. Whatever he did, we both know he’s too stupid or too full of cheap liquor to matter. Me ’n you know it would have been nothing short of murder, fella.”

  Franklin bent down to pick up the revolver. Wiped the dust from the barrel. Slid it back in the holster, watched Kane holster his. Wordlessly, he moved down the street.

  Kane picked up the other gun and tossed it out of reach for Morris to fetch, counting as Franklin took the smallest and slowest steps a man could take. Nineteen steps to barely go twenty feet.

  Franklin had the gun in his hand as he turned. Kane had silently pulled his as the other man walked. It was no contest. Guns barked. Franklin was good and fast, but it’s hard to beat a man who cheats for a living. Kane fired until Franklin was down.

  He walked to the gunman, who was all but gone, lying in the halo of dark dirt around his chest.

  Franklin wet his lips. Gasped.

  “Why?”

  Kane didn’t bother. Wouldn’t matter even if he had an answer. Man was mostly gone when he spoke and finished the journey before Kane could have replied.