“Hey, mister. Ya wanna sell that horse?” Gabe blinked and focused on a tall man dressed in a three-piece suit coming his way. He waved a handful of dollars in the air. Tempest snorted and jerked his head, but Gabe kept him under control.
“I asked if you want to sell that horse.”
From behind him he heard someone yell, “Hey, John, this feller’s got a horse for sale.”
Before he could respond, Gabe was quickly surrounded as men elbowed one another to get closer. Tempest pranced sideways and snorted. Gabe tightened his grip on the leather lead and patted the horse’s jaw. “Shh…you’re all right, boy.”
“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for that horse,” a man said above the din of the crowd.
Men pushed closer, and Gabe had to return to the ramp leading to the freight car. Tempest eyed it, snorted, and stood his ground on the depot platform.
“I’ll give you forty dollars,” a bald man with a bushy beard cried.
“Forty-five.” A tall stranger shoved the bald man, who back-stepped several paces. “I claimed the horse first.”
Gabe raised his free hand in the air, palm forward. “Gentlemen, please.” When they quieted, he continued: “Sorry to disappoint you, but this horse isn’t for sale. He’s my personal mount. I apologize for the confusion.”
The crowd moaned as one but quickly dispersed amid grumbling murmurs. Relieved, Gabe looked around and found his satchel partially hidden under the ramp. He glanced past the depot, wondering what to do with Tempest now. Would the horse be safe in a livery, or would he need to hire a man to guard him?
A dark-haired adolescent boy jogged toward him, obviously hoping for a coin or two. “Need some help, mister?”
“Know a good hotel and a reliable livery where I can board my horse for a few days?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy bobbed his head and smiled. “Can I lead your horse?”
Gabe held out his satchel. “You carry this, but better leave ole Tempest to me. He’s a bit spooked by the train and crowd.”
The boy accepted the satchel and shrugged one shoulder. “Sure. Hopkins Livery can board him, and the Blue Bonnet’s got clean beds and fair food, but the Leland Hotel is the best in town.”
“It is, huh?” Gabe grinned. “So, what’s your name?”
“Jasper.”
“Since you seem to know a lot about this town, can you tell me why that mob wanted to buy my horse so bad?”
“It’s the land grab. Folks are buying up every horse and wagon they can find. Some even got them fancy bicycle things, but I cain’t see how they’re gonna ride them over rocks and through gullies. Give me a horse over one of them crazy contraptions any day.”
An idea sparked in Gabe’s mind. Bill Swanson had some saddle-broke horses for sale back in KC. If he could buy them cheap and have them shipped here, he stood to make a nice profit. He’d assumed that men riding in the land run would already own a mount, but after the way those men had dickered for Tempest, he felt confident he could quickly sell a half-dozen good horses.
All he had to do was get them to Caldwell before the land run.
Silas Stone tossed a final shovelful of dirt onto the fresh grave. Using a branch broken off a nearby cottonwood tree, he swiped the red soil around the grave and tossed several handfuls of leaves on it until the area blended in with the undisturbed ground. He threw the branch aside and studied his handiwork. Nobody would find the cowboy’s final resting place for a long, long time—if ever.
Tired from the strenuous physical labor, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out. With shovel in hand, he followed the faint path and made his way down the hill to where the cowboy’s dugout sat, nestled in the side of the knoll. The man had the misfortune of settling on the only piece of land that Silas had determined long ago would be his one day. And this was that day.
The other man had done the exhausting work of chiseling the earthen house out of the hard dirt and rock on the side of the hill, but Silas and his brother would reap the benefit, staying warm in the winter and cool on hot summer nights—as long as the soldiers hunting for Sooners didn’t discover them in the Unassigned Lands before April 22.
He slid on the loose rock and jogged his way down to the nearby Cottonwood Creek then knelt at the bank and splashed the cool water on his face. Though only April, the warm afternoon sun glaring on him, combined with hard physical labor, made Silas long for a drink of whiskey. Water would have to do, though, since the nearest saloon was miles away, across the state line in Kansas. He slurped his fill then looked back at the dugout.
The door would be easy to miss. With the opening hidden among a copse of trees, wild shrubs, and tall prairie grass, nobody would know the dugout was there unless they were looking for it. He would have missed it himself, if he hadn’t seen the smoke from the cowboy’s campfire.
Now all he had to do was steal a small herd of cattle, and he’d be in the ranching business—right in the heart of Indian lands.
He stood and let his gaze wander across the area that had been allotted to the Creek and Seminoles. For some reason, no Indian had ever settled here. It was their loss.
Warm satisfaction seeped through him as he surveyed the valley he’d first laid eyes on during a trail drive years ago. He’d passed through several other times, and each time, his desire to settle here grew stronger.
The crickets and other insects suddenly went quiet, setting his senses on alert. A snap cracked behind him, and Silas swiveled, reaching for his gun. His frantic heartbeat slowed, and he lowered his hand as his younger brother, Arlan, approached.
“Thought you was diggin’ that cowboy’s grave, not lollygaggin’ by the creek.” Arlan glared at him, his rifle resting in crook of his arm.
“Thought you was on guard duty.” Silas lifted his chin and glowered back.
“A man’s gotta eat, don’t he?” After a moment, Arlan cracked a smile. “Besides, I been sittin’ up on that there hill standing guard all day, and there ain’t been nary a soul in sight. We’s too far out for them soldiers t’find us.”
Silas grabbed the shovel and started for the buckboard that held their food supplies. After dinner, they could move everything into the dugout, hide the buckboard, and no longer have to worry about critters getting into their supplies during the night. He’d miss bedding down under the stars but not sleeping in the rain.
“I’ve got a hankering for some fish tonight.” Silas tossed the shovel on top of a crate and pulled a cane pole off the wagon’s tailgate.
Arlan reached for it. “I’ll catch ’em while you fix the biscuits.”
Silas raised the pole out of his brother’s reach. At seventeen, Arlan was still nearly a foot shorter than Silas. Arlan jumped up, but Silas stretched high, until his overalls pinched his shoulder.
“Give it to me.”
He shoved his brother back. “Hold yer horses. I figured we could both fish to celebrate our new home. We’ll eat sooner that way.”
“You reckon it’s safe to live inside a hill? Don’t seem right to me.” Arlan’s worried glance shifted toward the hidden dugout. The boy hated small, dark places ever since their pa had locked him in the root cellar when he was young. It wasn’t like Arlan could help being simple-minded, but their pa had been embarrassed to take the boy into town and had locked him up to keep him safe while the family was gone. Then as if the dugout were never a concern, Arlan shrugged. “Guess we could eat faster with us both fishin’.” He crossed to the wagon and rummaged around until he found their second pole.
Silas mixed together a cup of flour, a bit of sugar, and a spoon of grease from the pan where they’d fried the rabbit they ate for lunch, then rolled out some dough balls for bait. His brother reached around Silas’s arm and snatched one, ran his hook through it, and squeezed it tight as he headed for the creek. Arlan glanced over his shoulder, grinning, as if he’d stolen a cookie from a bakery. Silas shook his head. His brother was just a big kid. Sometimes
he wondered if Arlan would ever grow up.
Two hours later, after they’d gorged themselves on fried bass, Silas leaned against a tree while Arlan stretched out next to the glowing embers of the fading campfire. They really ought to throw some dirt on it so the smoke and scent wouldn’t alert soldiers to their whereabouts, but he didn’t have the strength to move. All that grave digging had plumb worn him out.
The sun would be setting soon, and they needed to get the food supplies transferred from the buckboard to the dugout, but he couldn’t seem to make his lackluster body move. Riding herd on three thousand longhorns was a heap easier than digging through hard red dirt and rock. Muscles ached, and blisters burned his hands. He felt a lot older than his twenty-six years.
“I heard tell folks call people like us Sooners.” Arlan scratched his belly. “You don’t reckon the soldiers will find us afore the race, do ya?”
“Doubt it.” Silas yawned. “Startin’ tomorrow, we’ll lay low and hide out in the dugout until the twenty-second.”
Arlan bolted upright. “But that’s more’n two weeks away. I cain’t stay indoors all that time.”
Silas heaved a sigh. He didn’t much like the idea either, but it had to be done to avoid the soldiers hunting for Sooners. The closer it got to race day, the more the soldiers would be searching for people illegally entering the area reserved for the land rush. He and Arlan weren’t the only ones who’d entered the Unassigned Lands early and staked a claim. The gently rolling hills were full of squatters. Once the race started, the legitimate racers would be hard pressed to find a piece of land that a Sooner hadn’t already taken. Silas chuckled. Play by the rules and you lose.
“What about the horses?” Arlan sat up and stared at him, hair hanging over his eyes, looking like a kid.
“What about ’em?”
“We gonna take ’em into the dugout, too? It’ll be mighty smelly if ’n we do.”
Silas shrugged his stiff shoulder. “Haven’t quite worked that out yet.”
Arlan flopped back down, sending a puff of red dirt into the air. “What about the buckboard?”
Silas grunted. That was something else he hadn’t worked out. Somehow, he needed to hide or dispose of the wagon. They could use it as firewood, but then they wouldn’t have a way to haul things.
Silas glanced past Arlan to where his brother had leaned the rifle against the wagon wheel when he’d searched for the fishing pole. He held affection for Arlan, but the boy wasn’t too responsible. He’d been watching out for his younger sibling most of Arlan’s life, even seeing that he got a job herding cattle whenever Silas signed on.
Silas’s eyelids drooped. He really needed to get moving and put the food away before the sun set. Maybe if he rested a few minutes he could find the strength to do the job. Arlan’s soft snores lulled him into a relaxed state. Only a few minutes’ rest…
A horse’s loud whinny jolted Silas out of his dream of dancing saloon girls. Dumb animals. He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
“Soldiers!” Arlan squawked as he jerked upright.
In the dimness of twilight, Silas’s heart jolted as soldiers on horseback charged into their camp, rifles aimed straight at him and his brother. Arlan scrambled on hands and knees toward the rifle, still leaning against the wagon wheel.
“No!” Silas yelled and raised his hands. A soldier lifted his weapon and fired as Arlan grabbed the rifle. His brother’s body jerked and flew sideways in the air. He landed with a dull thud four feet from where Silas stood.
Numb with shock, Silas stared at his brother’s unmoving body. The rank smell of gunpowder filled the air as a cloud of smoke began to settle. Rage seeped through him. He growled a deep guttural roar and charged the closest soldier, pulling him off his horse. The frightened animal squealed and trotted off as the soldier fell to the ground. The loud blast of rifle fire splintered the twilight again. A sharp, burning pain stabbed Silas’s shoulder, and he reached for it, feeling a warm stickiness.
“You shot me.” He swirled around to face a young soldier, still aiming his rifle at him.
“Take another step and I’ll shoot you again, you stinkin’ Sooner.” The private sneered in the waning light.
Suddenly, Silas remembered his brother. He pivoted, looking to see if Arlan had moved. With one arm stuck under his body and the other just a foot away from the rifle, Arlan lay still—dead—with a bullet wound in his chest, eyes wide open in stunned shock. A pain unlike anything Silas had ever known spiraled through him.
“Tie him up and tend his wound,” the captain said.
A soldier grabbed Silas’s good arm and shoved him toward the campfire. He gritted his teeth as pain burned from his elbow to his shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the ache lancing his heart. A lump swelled in his throat, choking off his breathing. The soldier shoved him to the ground near the campfire, but he barely felt the contact. His brother was dead.
Another young private who looked no older than Arlan added several branches to the fire then tossed on a handful of dry prairie grass. It flickered and flamed to life, popping and snapping.
A man sat down beside Silas, cut away his shirt, and doctored his wound. “Good thing the bullet went clear through. Should heal quickly, as long as infection don’t set in.”
Ignoring the man, Silas ground his teeth together, trying to understand how his life could change so quickly. Why had he been so stupid and let down his guard?
“You two, dig a grave for that man.” The captain pointed to two soldiers then at Arlan.
Silas shivered at the thought of his brother buried in a cold, dark hole. Arlan would hate being cooped up in so small a place forever.
Trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder, he looked around the camp. The fire illuminated a flickering circle of light, but shadows of night threatened to sneak in and steal its brightness. Thanks to the lateness of the hour when the soldiers had arrived, they hadn’t noticed the dugout yet. Maybe it would remain safely hidden in the brush.
Silas had never wanted anything so badly in his whole life as this little piece of earth. He’d planned to give Arlan the home he’d never had—and now never would.
He covered his ears to block out the swish-thunk of the shovels of dirt where the soldiers were digging Arlan’s grave. His brother would always remain on this piece of land, and some way, somehow, Silas would come back to reclaim what was his.
Chapter 4
Lara leaned on the hoe, staring at the damage Bad Billy had done to the garden, and her vision blurred. It had taken both her and Joline a good fifteen minutes to wrestle the determined goat out of the garden and back into his pen. Tiny baby carrots lay exposed to the sun, and tender lettuce and chard leaves shredded by Bad Billy’s hooves lay sprinkled all over the front third of the garden, looking as if a cyclone had struck.
Swatting at a tear with the back of her hand, Lara knelt down and carefully patted the carrots back into the ground, hoping they would continue to grow in spite of their early uprooting. She inhaled a deep breath and lifted her chin, taking a moment to compose herself. She would not cry. Not here. Not now. If she got started, she might never stop. Someone had to be the cornerstone of the family, and that someone was her, whether she wanted the job or not.
Moving down the row of carrots, she continued pressing them into the ground and setting aside the ones that had been damaged. Why did this have to happen? Couldn’t God have kept that ornery goat out of the garden? They had precious little food to eat without this destruction.
“How bad is it?” Jo’s long shadow darkened the row Lara worked on.
“Could be worse. Lost some carrots, but I hope most will survive. The lettuce is another matter.” Lara glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe you and Michael could start picking up the bigger leaves. Some may be salvageable.”
“Bad Billy’s a bad boy.” Michael leaned against Lara’s back, and she turned to envelop him in a one-arm hug, needing the comfort of his little arms around her neck.
After a moment, Jo tugged him away. “Come on, Shorty, let’s gather the lettuce.”
Michael planted a warm, sloppy kiss on Lara’s cheek, and then he knelt in the dirt to bury a carrot. Her heart warmed by her son’s affection, Lara pressed in the last carrot, fetched the bucket, and headed down to the creek.
She stood by the water’s edge, listening to the quiet ripples bubbling over the rocks. This place was so peaceful, so free of problems. It soothed her troubled spirit. Glancing up, she peered at the bright blue sky. Not a single cloud marred the view. She knew God could see her—knew that He was aware of their situation and struggles, but why didn’t He help them?
She scooped up a bucketful of water and returned to the garden. As she poured a ladle of water on each carrot, she tried to shake off her melancholy. Most likely, some of it was due to Tom’s death. It must have affected her more than she realized. Plus, not having a body to bury made it hard to comprehend he was actually dead and never coming back.
The thought both relieved and troubled her. In the dark of night, she had cried a few tears over the man she’d once loved, but it was time to look to the future. Grandpa wanted her to find out more information about the land rush. Now was as good a time as any.
An hour later, after she’d cleaned up and put Michael down for a nap, Lara headed to Caldwell. Even before she entered the town, she was shocked by the swells of people everywhere. Tents lined the road and onto the prairie as far as she could see. Only three days had passed since she’d last been in town to return Mrs. Henry’s mending, and yet Caldwell’s population had grown surprisingly in that time.
As she walked past the Leland Hotel doorway, a man stepped outside and nearly collided with her.
“Pardon me, ma’am.”
She quickly sidestepped then looked up, surprised to see the same man whose horse she’d rescued at the depot.
He stared at her for a moment, then recognition sparked in his dark eyes. Tipping his hat, he smiled, sending trickles of unexpected awareness shooting through her.
Gabriel's Atonement Page 4