by Mike Blakely
SEVENTY-ONE
Amelia greeted him at the door and her grief began again. She had learned to conceal it, smiling through everything. Caleb tested her though. He walked with Pete’s gait and wore his hat at the same angle. And there were certain lines around his mouth and eyes that they held in common. She had never noticed them in Caleb before. They didn’t come from Ab. They must have come from Ella, but, of course, Amelia had never known her. There wasn’t even a picture of her anywhere.
She hugged him, embracing him a little longer than she should have. “Gloria!” she called. “Some tea for our guest, please.”
Caleb was a guest on his own ranch, in his brother’s own house. He sat rigidly on the velour sofa and hung his hat on his knee.
Amelia sat across from him, smiling deceptively. She straightened the front of her maternity frock and sighed. “Well, I suppose Buster’s told you everything.”
“Yes,” Caleb said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’d have come sooner.”
“I know you would have. I sent a letter, but, of course, I had no way of knowing if it would ever find you.” Her smile quivered. “This must be very difficult for you.” She was staring strangely at him, smiling purposefully.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said.
Gloria arrived with the tea and poured Caleb a cup. He would have preferred coffee with about two fingers of whiskey. “Thanks,” he said.
“That will be all, Gloria.” Amelia dismissed her with a brush of her hand. “But I am worried about you,” she said to Caleb. “I’m afraid you’ll think … I had no idea why your father wanted to bury Pete on the hill. I surrendered all the arrangements to him. I hope you don’t think it was my idea. I didn’t want you to find out that way.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I know the old man was behind it. I don’t blame nobody but him.”
When Caleb slurped the hot tea, it scorched his lip. To cool it, he poured some into the saucer and blew on it. He slurped some of the cooled tea and poured the rest back into the cup, repeating the process until the tea in the cup became cool enough to gulp.
Amelia’s sad smile became more forced. Pete would never drink his tea or coffee until it had been “blowed and saucered.” It was a crude habit cowboys engaged in when given the luxury of saucers. She had tried unsuccessfully to break him of it.
“I’m worried about your father,” she said, as Caleb cooled his tea. “He doesn’t come out of his cabin very often anymore. Lee Fong says he rarely even puts on his leg, but hops about the house when he wants to move.”
Caleb shrugged.
“Maybe you should go over and talk to him,” she suggested.
He set his cup down rather abruptly on the saucer. “I’m the last person he wants to talk to. Pete must have told you that a long time ago.”
“I never understood it,” Amelia said. “What happened between the two of you?”
“We had a fallin’ out over whether or not I ought to work cows.” He snickered and glanced around the room. “Sounds silly, don’t it?” He was looking for Ol’ Cedar Root’s horns. They weren’t hanging in the parlor, but he didn’t think it polite to ask about them.
“What was said between the two of you?”
He sighed. “I guess we said about what we thought of each other at the time.”
“How long ago has it been?”
“Goin’ on ten years now.”
“Ten years! Well, it’s time you forgave each other. Pete would like that. If nothing else comes of his death, at least you and your father can settle your differences.”
He scoffed. “Not much chance of that.”
“But you’ll be staying here now. You’ll have to reach some sort of understanding.”
“I beg your pardon?” Caleb said.
Amelia stared for a moment, silently. “You will be staying, won’t you?”
“What for?”
“To manage the ranch, of course. Someone will have to do it.”
“Who’s manager now?”
“Sam Dugan, but…”
“He’ll do a fine job, I’m sure.”
“But, it’s your ranch. Your name is Holcomb.”
“It’s the old man’s ranch,” Caleb argued, “and I’m the last man in the world he wants to run it.”
“But how do you know that?”
“If he wanted me to manage this ranch, he’d be over here right now telling me so.”
“Why wait for him?” She pointed to the old Holcomb cabin. “Go over there and tell him you want it. You are his last surviving son. Certainly he cannot refuse.”
Caleb stopped forcing the tea down his throat. He put the saucer and cup down in front of him. “Amelia, I appreciate you tryin’ to look after me, but I know ten other ranches I can work on from Montana to Texas. Ranches where I’ll be welcomed.”
“Yes, and you’ll never amount to anything on any one of them.” She sprang to her feet and paced across the room. “And do you know why? Because you have to come back here every year to tell your stories and play your songs. Because this is your home.”
Caleb rose and rolled the brim of his hat nervously in his hand. “This hasn’t been my home since the day my mother died. It was Pete’s. That’s the only reason I ever came back. Now that he’s gone, I don’t know that I’ve got anything to come back for, so I might as well go on down to New Mexico and work with Javier. I’ll amount to something there.” He was lying, of course. Javier had nothing for him but hospitality.
“Back to your little señorita?” She shook her head at the scandal of it. “Did you ever marry her? What’s her name?”
“Her name is Marisol and, no, I haven’t married her yet. You can’t find a priest down there in winter.”
“How very convenient.”
“But I reckon I could find one this time of year, so maybe I’ll just trot on back down there and marry her. Javier’s ranch is more mine than this one is. And my children are down there, too.”
She put her hands over her stomach. “And your brother’s child is here. Who will fill the role of its father?”
“The old man is here. And Buster.”
Amelia gestured in disgust and slapped her palms against her hips. “I was hoping for someone a little younger and, well, not quite so colored.”
“Buster did a fine job of raising me,” he said defensively.
“Did he?”
Caleb rolled his hat brim tight as a cigar. “Well, the boys are all here.” He gestured toward the bunkhouse.
“I won’t have my child influenced by a group of foul-mouthed roughs!”
He saw Gloria peeking into the parlor from the kitchen. He put his hat on his head. “Thanks for the tea,” he said and headed for the door, his spurs ringing with every step.
“Wait!” Amelia ordered. “You’re needed here! Can’t you see that? When are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and forgive your father?”
He stood in the open doorway. “Do you know how I found out my brother was dead? I rode over that hill and saw his name carved on a cold piece of stone. There ain’t no other way to feel for myself but sorry, and I don’t see that the old man deserves my forgivin’ him. Good mornin’!” He turned his back and escaped down the steps.
Amelia stepped into the doorway. “Caleb! Don’t you stalk out of here on me!” She felt Gloria’s strong hand on her shoulder.
“Here, now, Miss Amelia. You know you’re not supposed to get yourself upset when you have that baby. Come sit down.”
Amelia allowed herself to be led back into the house. “Damn! I’m such a fool. I pressured him too quickly. I’m a fool.”
“No, you’re not. Don’t you say that. You’re just thinkin’ like a mama, that’s all. Makes you crazy, being in the family way.”
Amelia collapsed on the sofa. “Why won’t he stay?”
“You can’t make him stay. He’s got to make up his own mind. Now, you rest easy there and let me get you some more tea.”
SEVENTY-TWO
Ab never showed his face outside of the cabin while Caleb was on the ranch. He wouldn’t even go out to the privy without reconnoitering like an old spy. Buster didn’t hear any stories. The cowboys didn’t hear any songs. It didn’t seem proper to sing and play and carry on. To Caleb, Pete was just a few days in the grave.
He didn’t stay a week. He didn’t help in the roundup. It had changed since the fences had been stretched anyway and wasn’t much of an event anymore. He did go over to see the boys at the bunkhouse one night, however, to get them to give him directions to Cedar Root Canyon.
“Where’s the old buck’s horns?” he asked.
“We left him up there, horns and all,” Dan explained. “We all forgot about Ol’ Cedar Root after we found Pete. The horns were busted up pretty bad anyhow.”
“We’ve still got the horn he shed last spring though,” Sam said. He took the antler down from a sparsely stocked bookshelf. “This is what got Pete huntin’ after him in the first place.”
Caleb held the antler and whistled in amazement. “I guess I’d have hunted for him, too.”
The next morning he found Buster getting ready to hitch a team and plow the cornfield beside his irrigation ditch. Caleb had Powder River saddled, his belongings tied or stowed in the old sack behind the cantle.
“Where are you going’?” Buster asked.
“I thought I’d ride up in the mountains and find Cedar Root Canyon.”
“You want me to show you where it is?”
“No. I’d rather go alone.”
He nodded. “What do you need all your stuff for?” he asked, pointing at the bulging saddle wallet.
“I ain’t comin’ back.”
Buster hung his harnesses. “Leavin’ a little soon this year, ain’t you?”
“It ain’t the same anymore. I don’t feel much like stayin’.”
“What about the ranch?”
“Sam will take care of it.”
“You better hope he can handle it if you ever want to make this ranch your own. There’s lots of talk goin’ around about takin’ the fences off of the government land. Some of them nesters want a law against it. Them factory windmills are sellin’ cheap now. Could be nesters filin’ all over this ranch pretty soon.”
Caleb looked out over Monument Park, sparkling with dew under the low morning sun. “The old man’s still got the county clerk on his payroll, don’t he?”
“I don’t know. That business don’t concern me. I worry about my land.”
“Let the old man worry about his. It ain’t my concern either.”
“What about Amelia and her baby?” Buster said.
“Oh, she’ll probably marry some rich fella and move back to town. She don’t need me to help with no youngun. If she needs help, you’ll be here.”
Buster snickered. “She don’t want me teachin’ her kid nothin’. Anyhow, I’ll be busy with my own.”
“Huh?”
“I’m gonna be a papa, too.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You don’t waste time, do you?” He slapped Buster’s muscle-knotted shoulder and smiled, but he was swamped by an old festering shame. He had never mentioned the Pease River fight. Buster had fathered a child before—a son he would never see.
“Can’t waste time,” Buster said, grinning. “Gettin’ old.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. You’re as sound as old Powder River.” He slapped the gelding on the rump.
Buster took his hat off and ran his hand over his hair, molded by the hatband. “Gettin’ almost as many white hairs as him too.”
“Looks good on you. What are you? Forty?”
“Forty-two.”
He slapped the gelding again. “And just as sound as old Powder River.”
“Sounder,” Buster replied. “I still got my balls.”
Caleb laughed. “Say, before I go, have you got any of them old tobacco pouches filled up with those flower seeds? I’d like to spread some on the hill around Pete’s grave.”
“Sure I do. I’ve got seven or eight different kinds. Come on over to the cabin and I’ll get you some.”
Buster not only gave Caleb some seeds but followed him up the hill to make sure he spread them evenly.
“You think they’ll come up?” Caleb asked.
“With good rains they will. Some of ’em will come up next year. Some may take two. When you come back next spring, we’ll spread some more.”
Caleb stood silently, looking at the gravestone.
“You’re comin’ back next year, ain’t you?”
Caleb shrugged. “Don’t know that there’s anything to come back for. Pete’s gone.”
Buster thought he would wilt like a lily in the desert. Nothing to come back for? What about the man who had taught him to play five instruments, taught him to work, to sing, to laugh? He knew Caleb didn’t mean to be cruel, that he spoke too often without considering the toll his words would take. But it hurt anyway.
“I wish I could have seen him again,” Caleb said.
Buster felt suddenly selfish. Who was hurting more? “We’d all like to see him again. That’s what makes you feel bad. But if you believe in heaven, you know he’s in a better place and you will see him again.” He grimaced inwardly. He had promised himself he wouldn’t use any of the stock phrases people rattled off at times of death.
Caleb shifted his feet and looked out over the plains. He cleared his throat. There was a cool breeze climbing the hill, but he felt sweat around his collar. He felt as if he had drunk too much whiskey. “I’m afraid I might not.”
“Might not what?” Buster said.
“I’m afraid I might not believe.”
“What do you mean?”
He jutted his thumb at his brother’s stone. “Pete always believed. He could see somethin’ I couldn’t. I’m afraid I’ll never see it.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
Caleb contemplated, then looked at Buster. “Afraid of goin’ to hell.” He was serious.
Buster smirked, puzzled. “Who you think’s gonna send you to hell?”
He struggled. “God, I guess.” He wasn’t like Pete. It embarrassed him to utter the name of God outside of an oath.
“Why? Because you don’t believe in him?”
“Yeah.”
Buster laughed. “Don’t you know what it means to be God fearin’? If you’re scared God is gonna send you to hell, then you must believe in him. Ain’t no way you can be afraid of somethin’ you don’t believe in.”
Caleb had never understood religion in all of its small, silly intricacies: the Bible telling him what to do, the power of prayer. The Bible was written by men, not God. Prayer was talk wasted on vapor. Yet, he had feared God, dreaded hell. Pete had told him once that all he had to do to get into heaven was to believe in God. He had hoped there was no God, afraid he would never believe. But now he knew. To fear was to believe. Not just to profess belief but to feel it! To fear God was to believe in God. To believe in God was to fear nothing.
He rose like a hawk on the wind. It was so common-sensical that only Buster Thompson could explain it. Suddenly God was laughing at him from on high. Ridiculous mortal! He who feared God! Pete had known it all along.
He might never own Holcomb Ranch, but he would know the kingdom of heaven. He felt a soul within. Of course he believed! He had always believed because he had always feared. He was no less holy than the next man. The cold weight of dread lifted from his heart.
He should have known it long ago. The words that came to him came from somewhere. From God or God’s angels: maybe Ella or Matthew. Or Pete! Hadn’t he thought of a new verse just two weeks ago? He had made the words rhyme without effort. They had fallen into place, in perfect cadence, set to music. They were not his. He was only the carrier of the song. He was the voice, the player, the drifter.
“Hey,” Buster said. “You feel all right?”
Caleb felt the hand on his shoulder. “Huh? Yeah, I feel fine.”
&nb
sp; Buster told him to come back next spring—or summer, or winter, or fall. Caleb made no promises. He seemed dazed.
He mounted and followed the Arapaho Trail into the Rampart Range. He had the presence to wave but hardly saw Buster when he looked back at him. Maybe he would never be moved to turn preacher, like Pete, but he had religion. He was going to Cedar Root Canyon. Beyond that he knew no destination other than the Great Reward.
SEVENTY-THREE
Major Earl Stanley Bannon walked the streets with purpose. He needed horses, Indians, crack shots, fancy ropers, trick riders. He had just come from the Dodge City stockyards, where he had purchased two dozen longhorn steers, each with horns spanning six feet or more, to be used in his tent-show stampede. The drunken cowboys, the cattlemen, the gamblers, the merchants, and the ladies of easy virtue surged aimlessly around him, but Bull Bannon’s path was ramrod straight. He had direction.
As his pale green eyes swept the bustling street for prospects, he spotted a wide-brimmed hat above the crowd. He leaned casually against a storefront and watched. The horseman rode a huge dapple gray that carried him a head above the surrounding riders. Bannon glimpsed a Colt revolver belted around the rider’s waist and a sea-grass rope tied in a coil to the saddle. The cowboy rode stone sober in the midst of drunkenness.
“Hey!” the major shouted. “You! Cowboy! Yes, you. Come over here.”
The cowboy guided the dapple gray between other horses and around wagons, sizing up the man on the board sidewalk as he approached. He noted the long waves of silver-blond hair flowing out from under the perfectly creased felt hat; the immaculate mustache swept back to the sideburns; the full-sleeved shirt, vest with conspicuous watch chain, black leather holster with pearl-handled pistol, striped riding trousers, black boots, silver spurs.
“What do you want?” the cowboy said, directly but respectfully.
“What’s your name?” Bannon asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Major E.S. Bannon—Bull Bannon to most.”
The cowboy smiled skeptically with one side of his mouth. “Are you really him?”
“Why do you doubt me?”
“They make you out to be taller on them theater posters.”