Rakeheart

by Rusty Davis

  He started to move across to her as though there was no line of menace creeping closer. He called her name and waved with his left hand. Her face was a study in conflicted misery. She wanted to say hello, did not dare say hello, but could not pretend he did not exist. The compromise was a wretched smile and timid flop of the hand that could pass as a wave.

  They were maybe twenty feet away. He was now in the middle of the street.

  Then he stopped.

  Drew. Cocked. Fired.

  He had fired high. Nobody’s horse deserved to be shot. Luck was with him. He bagged a hat that went sailing from its rider’s head and bounced down the street. Maybe he did better not aiming.

  As that man reached back to grab what was already far gone, others were reaching into their holsters when Kane’s second shot went high over the group.

  “No weapons in town, boys.”

  Surprise was complete and total.

  “Not very hospitable,” said the third man from the right. The leader. Thin beard. A little older than Kane. Medium build—didn’t look impressive sitting in the saddle, but a man who radiated authority. Wind-worn, sun-darkened face. Knocked off balance but trying to find his way back, sure that he would.

  “Made me sheriff. Sheriff has got to keep the peace.”

  “Not planning to violate the peace, Sheriff. Never had a problem before. My men and I only want a drink at Noonan’s.”

  “Have all you want. Drop them guns there, and you can get ’em back when you leave. Safer for everybody.”

  “Sheriff, I don’t know where you get your notions from, but this one is a mite odd. Never heard of such a thing as leavin’ our guns behind. Could be you don’t know who we are and why this town should be giving us a welcome and not a slap in the face like this. Some folks won’t like this when they hear about it.”

  “Don’t mean to make folks run cryin’ to mommy.” Even if Halloran was right and he was the town cat’s paw, he was enjoying the role for the moment.

  The man regarded Kane from his horse. Kane figured the life he pretended to live while he worked for Sherman was a lot like the one this man lived for real.

  “Name’s Wood. Brent Wood. These men here are part of the Company Riders. Name mean anything?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “You are not being a reasonable man, Sheriff.”

  “Trying to protect my town, Wood. Can’t be no harm in that. Not like this is personal. Same rule for every gang that rides in. Not my fault if you are the only one to ride in so far.”

  Both men let the lie stir about and mix with the dust whipping around in small circles. Time to push this, Kane thought.

  “Not askin’ again, Wood. I can hit men even better than hats. Guns or git.”

  “You are making a big mistake.”

  “Feel free to make your own.”

  Wood waited a little longer. If anyone in the town was talking, walking, or spitting tobacco, it was not evident from the silence. Kane felt that wind tug at the hair he had never remembered to trim. He was ready to fight, ready to fire at any man’s movement. Then he could feel Wood settle back in the saddle.

  “You win this round, Sheriff. Price might be higher than you want to pay, but you win it.”

  Wood slowly unbuckled his gun belt from around his waist, buckled it again, and slowly placed it over the pommel of his saddle. The other riders with him followed suit, some with glares at Kane.

  “That’s a good first step,” Kane said. “Now drop them on the ground, and I’ll pile them at the stable, and nobody will shoot off nothin’ they’d miss while they enjoy that drink.”

  “Got a name, Sheriff?”

  “Bet you already know it, Wood, so whyn’t we not play games?”

  “Kane would be a short name on a gravestone.”

  “So’s Wood.”

  Two poker faces locked wills. Only one came out on top.

  “Let the sheriff play his game, boys,” called out Wood.

  Soon, the riders’ gun belts, with the weapons still in the holsters, lay in a pile of leather and metal. There were still rifles in the scabbards of every saddle, and Kane guessed at least one had another gun tucked somewhere, but he knew he could push this too far, if he had not done so already.

  “Well then,” said Kane, bowing slightly, doffing his hat in a sweeping gesture and moving out of their way. “Welcome, boys, to Rakeheart, and enjoy your time here. Drink up and spend your money.”

  They dismounted.

  Kane continued to cross the street in the way he had begun. As Janie, who had come to collect the horses and take them to the stable, began collecting the guns and putting them over the saddles of the appropriate horses, he tipped his hat to her. He never looked back.

  Halloran was lounging in a doorway.

  “They all go into Noonan’s?” Kane asked.

  “Every mother’s son of them,” the old man replied.

  Kane felt the knot relax.

  “You know that this is not over, for all that the spectacle was as grand as a parade?” said Halloran. There seemed to be a glint in his eye. Kane had not seen him on the street earlier. “It is enemies you have made this day, Friend Badge.”

  “It’s never over,” commented Kane, resuming his leisurely walk through Rakeheart.

  If the riders had wanted to see what he was made of, they got a taste. He got their measure, too. An animal that knew when not to attack was wilier and deadlier than one that knew only to strike.

  But why? That why always nagged him. Some men were simple. They were brutes stomping anyone in their way. Others were greedy. These men were disciplined, not like so many of the men he chased for Sherman who were violent for the thrill of looting, burning, and killing. There was purpose in them. What was that purpose?

  The thought came. It could backfire. Probably would. Then why not? He was going to pay anyhow; might as well make it worth it.

  The piano jangled loudly against the silence as he walked into Noonan’s, where Wood and the owner were in an animated discussion at the far end of the bar. He walked slowly towards them, keeping his right hand visible and hooked in the buckle of the gun belt.

  Noonan slithered off as Kane approached, the oil of his smile sliding past Kane as he moved away to deal with what Kane was sure was a nonexistent problem. Either that or arranging who would shoot Kane if things went wrong.

  Wood had a glass of beer in front of him.

  “Another?”

  Eyes locked.

  “Why not?”

  Kane tossed a nickel on the bar.

  “How well you know Jared Wilkins?”

  Wood looked at him over the rim of his glass of beer as he sipped. His face showed that was not the question he anticipated.

  “Rancher. Shame. Some accident or other.”

  “Not your work?”

  Wood recoiled as if slapped. He was turning purple in the face as his hand gripped the glass so hard Kane thought it would break.

  “There’s a lot you don’t understand, Sheriff. A lot you might want to think about before you say things.”

  “Honest question. One hand we got a man who gets shot. Other hand we got men who shoot men for a living. Man taking an honest look at the situation might see how those might be connected. Saves time to ask.”

  “No connection, Sheriff. We’re honest men.”

  “Clem Ferguson.”

  “What of him? He say something?”

  “Not much now. He’s dead.”

  “Lot of hard luck out there.”

  “Not much a believer in luck striking twice in the same place when it happens to folks who live in a place other folks covet. Could be that men good with guns are intimidating a widow to force her to sell.”

  “You ride a wide trail, Sheriff, and you say some things that could offend a man’s pride. Never heard that’s good for a man.”

  “Man named Kruger? Ring any bells? Found with a big hole in him last fall right before the snow.”

 
“Sounds like being around this town is hazardous to the good health of a lot of men, Sheriff. Might be something you want to think about. More time here might not be so good for you, either.”

  “Prob’ly not. This sheriffing business, though . . . all these questions . . . like poison ivy. Get an itch, and you scratch it and another and another. And every scratch brings another itch. It don’t end until you scratch all the way down and draw blood.”

  “Painful.”

  “Might end that way,” Kane admitted. “For somebody.”

  “That a threat, Sheriff?”

  “Call it an observation, Wood.” Kane pushed himself away from the bar. “Enjoy your beer. ’Spect I’ll see you around.”

  “You will, Sheriff. Keep them ears open. Might learn something you need to know before going off half-cocked.”

  Kane gave a thin smile and tipped his hat. “Mighty fine advice.”

  He turned his back and slowly left the saloon, hearing the sounds of voices begin to rise with each step he took away from Noonan’s and into the darkness of Rakeheart.

  Boys stirred up the nests of hornets and bees because it was what boys did. Boys that lived to be men also knew that staying in one place when the bees were riled would often result in an unpleasant response. There was a line between cowardice and common sense. Kane figured he was right up to it, but not quite over it.

  Tecumseh had company in the stable. Probably not the place Kane wanted to sleep right then and there. Might be too tempting a target. Night riding wasn’t ideal, and staying out of range felt a lot like running away, but there was nothing like causing trouble to make a man suddenly feel the need to embrace caution. Then again, what he had in mind might seem like foolishness to anyone else.

  He saddled the horse, wondering what it might be like for an animal to have some fool person come along and wake you up in the middle of the night for no good reason. He kept a hand near his gun as he led Tecumseh, then unlatched the big door of the stable. No one either way. He closed it after him, mounted, and slowly rode out of town, one direction in mind.

  An itch had to be scratched.

  The shack he was starting to wonder if he would ever move into emerged from the dimness. He had missed the road that turned southeast but backtracked and found it. He took his time, uncertain whether he would face a welcoming committee. Six riders were in Rakeheart. He wanted to know how many more there might be. Greene made it seem like the riders might be more talk than reality; the town council, as though they were an army. He needed to know.

  Smoke.

  Three stubby trees were nearby. He tied Tecumseh, left his hat with the horse, grabbed his rifle, and walked the rest of the way on foot, moving slowly. He had time.

  He could see that the wide-open horizon was now filled with the edge of a plateau that ran toward what he knew were the high table of flat lands to the south and small hills to the north. They had found a place that was cozy and easy to defend.

  The flattened trail left by innumerable hoofprints led up a rise. The trail was lighter against the darkness of the waving grass along its edges. The waist-high grass was not much for cover, but it was all there was.

  Slowly. Step and look. Step and look. Men who prowl by night have keen senses. He did. They would.

  A gully opened up below him. To his right, a campfire glowed. He kept to the higher ground for now. The gully was a cul-desac with almost sheer drops from where he was to the camp. One way in, one way out.

  What he saw was trouble. Almost two dozen men lounging. Card players laughing. Add them to the ones in Rakeheart, and the Company Riders might have thirty men all told. Probably more, if there were more sentries like the one to his left briefly skylined.

  In a place where the towns were puny and where cowboys were better at shooting critters than one another, this was almost like having a small private army. These men didn’t play little tricks the way Janie said. This was a gang of toughs that was too big to live off what Rakeheart could provide. Had to be.

  There were at last two buildings he had seen. They might be rough bunkhouses, but they were a sign that the Company Riders were not planning to leave when winter stalked the plains.

  He looked down, trying to see details in the dimness away from the fire. There had been no reports of rustling or robbery. If thirty-some men were making a living stealing, he could not imagine what it was if no one was reporting anything missing. He came to scratch an itch, but all he got was more itch.

  He was so lost in thought he almost got careless. He had moved too fast and lost track of the sentry, who was now twenty-five yards away. Kane could hear the man’s rifle cock in the wake of the loose dirt that rolled out from under Kane’s right boot as he stepped back from the edge of the gully to melt into the brush.

  Still. He hunkered down in the grass as best he could.

  Crunch. A step closer. Crunch. One further away. Another.

  His breath was too loud. He was certain he would be visible to a man walking in darkness all night, even on a night like this without a moon. There was no way the man could not see or hear him. He licked dry lips. The steps moved away.

  Kane shifted. A little longer.

  Crunch-crunch-crunch. Kane was sure he had been discovered. The steps stopped. Twenty feet? Maybe.

  A small gust wafted the scent of tobacco his way. The man was standing, wolf-patient, waiting for the prey he knew was there to move. The rifle in Kane’s hand would be too loud, unless he wanted to face all of them. The noise of reaching for a knife would give the man a target.

  “Know you’re there,” came the voice. “Give it up.”

  Kane could feel his leg muscles cramping. The words did not mean for certain he had been found. The game was played this way. But as the man loudly exhaled, Kane feared that the game was nearing an end.

  Noise. Shifting.

  “Gonna start shooting.”

  One shot would stir the riders below. Hit or miss would doom him sooner or later.

  The rifle fired toward tall grass twenty-five feet to his left.

  Kane gripped the rifle. Maybe he could kill the sentry and get to his horse before the men below him responded, as long as none of them mounted quickly.

  Unexpectedly, hoots of derision came from the camp below.

  “Killin’ a shadow, Porter?” called one.

  “Gonna shoot off your foot!” mocked another.

  “That rabbit come back that drew down on you last week?” called out one voice, as more voices joined in the laughter.

  “Somebody is up here!” called the sentry.

  That got even more mockery.

  “Help me look!” called the sentry. “There’s somebody here, I tell you!”

  “That’s what you told us last week! Might be that big rabbit with big teeth and a big gun coming back to get even!” a voice yelled.

  “Enough! Both of you!” called out an exasperated voice that expected to be obeyed. The man ordered two men to go up to the sentry “in case.”

  The sentry muttered as he walked a few steps farther away. While the banter had been taking place, the man had moved further to Kane’s left. He would not have much time. He slowly tried to move out of his hiding place. The sentry was now walking straight towards him. Kane heard the steps. He could hear the voices of the men who were begrudging the fact that they were plucked from their card game to chase shadows. He would be caught between them.

  The sentry stepped next to Kane. “I know you’re here,” he was saying softly, looking well past Kane. Kane could see the figure looming dark above him. “I know it.” The man shouldered a rifle and was aiming over Kane’s left shoulder.

  “Frank! Where are you?” called one of the riders sent up to appease the sentry.

  “Over here!” he called. He moved toward the voices.

  “Where?”

  “Here, you fools!”

  He fired twice.

  Kane used the distraction of the second shot to move. He was now fifteen f
eet away. The sentry and his relief were moving away, toward the edge of the cliff. Keeping as low a profile as he could, while trying to be both quick and quiet, Kane moved to give them a wide berth until the volume of the noise made it clear that he was out of danger.

  But where was he? For a minute, Kane could not orient himself. There. That tree.

  He moved as fast as he could in the dimness, knowing that to fall on a rock could end his misadventure the wrong way. There was one shot. Nothing after it but guffaws.

  Soon he was down the rise and back to Tecumseh. Slowly, to not attract the attention of any eyes he might not know were looking, he led the horse by the reins for most of the way back to the shack. To wait. If the riders were suspicious enough, they would be pursuing. The worst thing that could happen was that he could get caught between a group looking for an intruder and Wood and his men coming back from Rakeheart. For now, he needed to be patient and stay hidden where he knew he was safe.

  It was nearly dawn when the riders who had gone to Rakeheart rode back, the pounding of their racing hooves only sounds in the night. When they were gone, Kane mounted and rode hard for Rakeheart as the world grew from blue-black to gray.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Janie was waiting when he arrived. Angry.

  “They want to get you for what you did last night.”

  “How did you know?”

  “You humiliated them in front of the whole town!” She was yelling.

  “Oh. That.” He had been turning over the puzzle of the riders in his mind and had all but forgotten bracing them.

  She regarded him as though for the first time she was realizing he might be different from other men.

  “Don’t you care?”

  “At the moment, not so much. They found out what they wanted to know. Ladies find stuff out over tea and when they talk polite daggers at each other. Menfolk don’t do the polite part. I need a nap. Maybe later.”

  “They’re hard men. Didn’t I tell you that?”