Once he knew the place was buttoned down tight, he’d try Mrs. Porter’s back door. If he found it locked, then he’d head on home and maybe try out that fancy copper bathtub.
Gideon tucked his badge into his coat pocket and left.
Pardner started to follow him, stopped, looked back at Rowdy.
“Go on,” Rowdy said to the dog, feeling a strange tightening in his throat. “You go on with Gideon and rest up. You’ve already put in a good day’s work.”
Pardner stood stock-still for another few moments, then he turned and followed Gideon outside.
It was better this way, Rowdy told himself. Pardner was getting old, and though he’d been a stalwart traveler on the trip up from Haven, he wouldn’t be able to keep up on the trail, especially if a fast pace was required.
Tracking Pappy down would take some doing as it was.
No, sir, he did not need a dog to make it harder.
Despite this conclusion, a somber mood settled over Rowdy as he walked the streets of Stone Creek. When he’d done that, he checked the saloons.
Business was slow and, while Jolene and the other owners might not have agreed, he saw that as a good thing.
He tried Mrs. Porter’s kitchen door last.
It was locked, and all the lights were out.
Rowdy’s melancholy deepened a little.
He secured the jailhouse last, laying kindling and newspaper for a morning fire, emptying the coffeepot and pumping water out in front, by the horse trough, to rinse out the grounds.
His horse and Gideon’s were settled in the lean-to barn.
Rowdy went inside the house, wondering what it would be like to have a wife waiting for him. Not just any wife, either.
It was Lark Morgan he imagined greeting him with a warm smile.
He tried to shake off the images, but they stayed with him.
Gideon lay in front of the fireplace, where he’d built himself a blaze, asleep in his bedroll. Pardner had settled right up alongside him, and he lifted his head and looked closely at Rowdy, awaiting a command.
Rowdy sighed. “Good night, Pardner,” he said.
Pardner rested his muzzle on his forepaws, let out a weary breath and closed his eyes.
Damnation, Rowdy thought glumly, it was purely a hard thing to give up a dog, even if the process was gradual.
The boiler in the bathtub room was fed by a pipe leading to a tank on the roof, and it was full of fresh water. Rowdy lit a fire under it, wiped the copper tub out, and got soap and a towel from the box of supplies he’d had sent over that morning from the mercantile.
The water was a long time getting hot, but he didn’t mind that. He used the time to shake out the bedding and check the mattress for cooties.
The bath was worth waiting for.
Rowdy soaked for a while, then scrubbed. It sure beat using one of the public tubs over at Jolene’s.
As soon as the sun came up, he decided, he’d saddle his horse and ride toward Flagstaff. Follow the railroad tracks for a while, and see if he came across his pa.
He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t much of a plan, he reckoned, but he had to start someplace. If Pappy had ridden out in the middle of the night, as Gideon said, and with some haste, he’d probably gone to meet up with his gang.
There were plenty of places in the rugged countryside for outlaws to roost.
The old man had asked about Wyatt and the others when Rowdy paid him a call in Flagstaff, acting like he didn’t know where any of them were. That didn’t mean, of course, that the Yarbro boys weren’t around, waiting to rob a train.
Rowdy swore.
What if it wasn’t just Pappy he had to find? What if Wyatt and Nick and Ethan and Levi were out there, too?
Pappy liked to conduct “peaceable” robberies, back in the old days, but he was nothing if not unpredictable. There’d been two holdups out of Flagstaff in the recent past, and one of them had ended in gunplay. A man had been shot in the arm and maimed.
There was a distinct possibility that Pappy had changed the way he did things. Age mellowed most folks, but it might not have had that effect on Payton Yarbro. The man was a law unto himself.
He had to find Pappy. That was all there was to it.
Rowdy closed his eyes, drifted off to sleep.
Woke to cold bathwater and what sounded like a hard kick to the side of the copper tub.
Cursing himself for not leaving the .44 within reach like he always did, Rowdy slammed into wakefulness, every muscle tense, ready to fight.
A pistol cocked, and the barrel pressed into the end of his nose.
“Stay right there in that water,” Pappy warned.
“Don’t you move a muscle, you little badge-wearing bastard.”
CHAPTER 7
PAYTON SAT DOWN HEAVILY on the lid of the commode in Rowdy’s bathing room. His hands, with one of his .45s clasped in them by its fancy butt, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, dangled between his knees.
“I’m not little,” Rowdy said gravely, “and given my mama’s reputation, with absolutely no credit to you, old man, I’m not a bastard, either.” He grabbed the towel off the side of the tub, stood and wrapped it around his middle. As his head cleared, he realized he hadn’t heard a sound out of Pardner. “You better not have done anything to my dog,” he warned.
“Worthless mutt just lifted his head and looked at me as I went by him,” Payton said. “He knows I ain’t dangerous.”
“Tell that to the man on that train, the one with half his right arm shot off,” Rowdy said, keeping his voice down on the off chance that Gideon might wake up.
Payton’s expression was pained. He needed a shave, not to mention a scrubdown with a wire-bristled brush, and his hair poked out wildly under the edges of his hat. Given the state of his clothes, he might have been dragged five miles behind a manure wagon.
“I didn’t shoot that damn fool,” Pappy said, indignant at the suggestion.
Rowdy picked his pants up off the floor, pulled them on, fastened the buttons. “Who did, Pappy?”
“Don’t call me ‘Pappy.’ Makes me sound like some old fart with a hitch in his get-along.”
“You are an old fart,” Rowdy maintained furiously, “and if you don’t quit robbing trains, you’re going to have more than a hitch in your get-along.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’ve given up robbing trains?”
“You rob trains?” Gideon asked, looming sleepily in the doorway, with a sight more admiration than Rowdy would have liked.
“Shit,” Rowdy said.
Payton looked at his youngest son and sighed as he labored slowly up off the lid of the commode. “That was a long time ago, boy,” he told Gideon. “I have changed my ways.”
Gideon’s eyes glowed. “You’re an outlaw?”
“I was an outlaw,” Pappy said, giving Rowdy a baleful glance as he spoke. “Though, sadly, there are those who won’t let me live it down.”
Rowdy snorted at that. Pushed his way past Gideon and almost fell ass-over-teakettle over Pardner, who’d stretched out crossways behind the boy.
“I never heard of any outlaw by the name of Jack Payton,” Gideon mused. Evidently, he followed the doings of such men. Probably read dime novels and penny-dreadfuls. Maybe he even admired cold-blooded, pimply little killers like Billy the Kid.
“It’s about time you knew the truth about me,” Payton told his younger boy, as they all progressed to the center of the house.
“Hell,” Rowdy mocked, grabbing the coffeepot off the stove to pump water into it at the sink, “you probably don’t know the truth about yourself.”
“He’s got a self-righteous streak in him,” Payton told Gideon, jabbing a thumb in Rowdy’s direction. “Just like your mama did. Good woman. She could pray the angels right down out of heaven to fetch and carry for her, but she didn’t have much patience with lesser folks like me.”
Rowdy glared at the old man. “What are
you doing here?”
“At least he saved us the trouble of turning the countryside over looking for him,” Gideon said, determined, evidently, to fix his attention on the bright side of things.
Figuring there wasn’t a bright side, Rowdy banged the pot down on top of the stove and scooped coffee into it. Remembered that the brew wasn’t going to boil without a fire under it, cursed, and yanked open the door to jam in newspaper and kindling, then light a match to the works.
Pappy sank into one of the three chairs at the table, long-suffering. Yes, sir, he was misunderstood, mistreated and generally a pity to behold—to hear him tell it, anyhow.
A muscle twitched in Rowdy’s jaw.
“If my own son won’t grant me refuge in my time of trial and tribulation,” Pappy murmured, every line of his face and body bemoaning his sorry lot and wrongly inflicted sorrows, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He was a regular Job. All he lacked was the boils and a pile of dust to sit in.
“I’m your son, too, Pa,” Gideon pointed out. “I’ll help you.”
“Shut up,” Rowdy told him. “Go out and put Pappy’s horse away, before somebody sees it.”
Gideon’s face went hard, but he did as he was told.
Pardner didn’t make a move to follow him but stuck close to Rowdy, like a burr snagged on his pant leg. It lifted Rowdy’s spirits a little, when the dog stayed.
“I asked you not to call me Pappy,” Payton said.
“I asked you not to rob trains,” Rowdy countered.
“I reckon we’re even.”
“You’re not the least bit glad to see me, are you?” Pappy asked, pulling a long face. Then, half under his breath, he scoffed, “Town marshal.”
“If you’re not going to tell me what the hell you’re doing here in the middle of the night, then shut the hell up,” Rowdy said, banging the stove door closed now that he knew the blaze had caught under the wood he’d added.
“I’m in trouble,” Pappy said, all wheedling charm now. “Shovel another spoonful of grounds into that coffeepot. I like it strong.”
“What kind of trouble?” Rowdy asked. As if he didn’t know.
“There’s been a train looted,” Pappy said with a shake of his head, as if to marvel that the world had come to such a state. “Twenty miles or so the other side of Flagstaff. The law is sure to blame me for it.”
“Pappy,” Rowdy said, keeping his voice down in case Gideon came back before time, “I am the law—I’m the marshal of Stone Creek. Did it occur to you that I might just throw your worthless ass in the hoosegow and let things take their course from there?”
“No,” Pappy said, with certainty. “Because if you did that, I’d naturally have to tell whoever might be inclined to listen that you’re my own precious boy, Rob Yarbro, and you showed an early talent for getting in the way of the occasional train yourself.”
Behind Rowdy’s agitation, which was considerable, trembled a new and fragile hope that he’d be able to stay on in Stone Creek a little longer. All he had to do was get rid of Pappy.
“Don’t say that name again,” Rowdy ordered, hauling back a second chair and sitting down hard at the table, across from his pa.
“What name?” Pappy asked innocently. “Rob Yarbro?”
Rowdy set his back molars and glanced uneasily toward the door.
“You don’t call me Pappy,” Pappy bargained craftily, “and I won’t call you Rob Yarbro.”
Rowdy was silent.
Pappy grinned. “Deal?”
“Deal,” Rowdy growled, after a long struggle to release his jaw.
“I came here because I didn’t know where else to go,” Pa said. “I guess I got spooked when I heard about that train.”
“You just heard about it? Or you were there?”
“All right,” Pa admitted. “I was there. Saw the whole thing. Six riders, all carrying rifles, with their faces covered. They felled a tree across the tracks and piled some brush on it, then lit the whole shebang on fire.” He paused and smiled in rueful reflection. “Works every time,” he went on. “But, damn it, that’s my trick. My trademark.”
“When did this happen?”
“Today, a little before noon. I had to ride like the devil to get here, and my poor horse is all but done in.”
“And there was shooting?”
“One of the riders was wounded.” Payton’s expression was bleak, recalling the scene. “The way the bullets flew, I’d say some of the passengers must have been hit, too. Nobody fought back, far as I could tell, when the bandits went in to get the strongbox, and they were in there a long time, too. Came out whooping like a bunch of cowpokes on a binge, and one of them was wearing the contents of some lady’s jewelry box. Reminded me of some of the Indian raids, back in the old days.”
Rowdy swore.
The coffeepot began to rattle on the stove.
“Did you recognize any of the outlaws?” Rowdy asked, and held his breath for the answer.
Not Wyatt, he prayed silently. Not Nick or Ethan or Levi. Please, not them.
“Not a Yarbro in the bunch,” Pa said confidently. “Is that coffee about ready?”
“You said the robbers had their faces covered,” Rowdy persisted. “How can you be sure it wasn’t a family reunion?”
“I know my own boys when I see them,” Pa insisted, a little affronted. “Bare-faced or with a bandanna hiding their features. Anyhow, none of your brothers would shoot anybody.”
“But they would build a fire to stop the train,” Rowdy reminded him.
“I remember when that was your job,” Pa said, smiling fondly. Some men recalled going fishing with their sons, or teaching them to ride or whittle. Payton Yarbro had taught his boys—except, mercifully, for Gideon—to carry out a holdup with finesse, and subsequently evade some of the best lawmen in the country.
The hinges of Rowdy’s jaw ached. “Now what, Pa?”
“I need to rest. Lay low a few days. Then I’ll require money and a fresh horse. You go to Ruby, after the dust of my hasty departure settles, and she’ll make good on whatever you have to spend. Tell her I’ll send for her when I get where I’m going.”
“What makes you think I have money?”
Pa grinned. “You always had the damnedest knack for turning fifty cents into a five-dollar gold piece, even since you were that high.” He raised his grimy hand, palm down, about level with the tabletop.
“You’ve got money.”
Just then Gideon banged in from outside.
“That horse,” he said, “is fair run down to a nubbin. Somebody been chasing you, Pa? Due to your being an outlaw and all?”
“For the last time, Gideon,” Payton said, drawing his trail-worn self up with a scruffy kind of dignity, “I am retired from that life. You think Ruby Hollister would take up with a common outlaw?”
“I think Ruby Hollister might be an outlaw,” Gideon speculated cheerfully, helping himself to the third chair at the table. “I reckon I might like to be one, too.”
Rowdy hadn’t had time to develop a particular attachment to the boy, but he knew what it meant to live outside the clear boundaries of the law, and he wasn’t about to let Gideon take that path if he could help it. “Like hell you will—”
Pa’s words ran right over the top of Rowdy’s, like a bunch of thirsty cattle stampeding for a water hole. “You’re staying right here with your brother!”
Both Gideon and Rowdy turned to stare at Payton.
“Staying here?” Gideon echoed.
“With me?” Rowdy asked.
“Safest place there is,” Pa said, rocking a little in his chair and looking satisfied with his own brilliance.
“I don’t see how you figure that,” Rowdy said. When he’d told Gideon to come to Stone Creek if he ever needed help, he’d meant what he said, straight up and solid. He just hadn’t expected it to be any kind of long-term deal, that was all.
“By now,” Pa explained, with exaggerated patienc
e, “the telegraph wires are buzzing with the news of that train robbery. Come tomorrow morning, Flagstaff will be crawling with railroad agents and rangers—” He halted, smiling, perhaps relishing the image of all that fuss being raised on his account. “And they’re all going to think I’m behind it. Ruby and me, we’ve lived real quiet, on purpose, all these years, but somebody’s bound to pick up the trail at least as far as her saloon.” Again Pa stopped talking, and he had the good grace to frown at what came next. “I don’t want Gideon dragged into this.”
There was a flaw in Payton’s logic—Rowdy was a Yarbro, and if anybody figured that out, like Sam O’Ballivan, for instance, the trail wouldn’t end at Ruby’s Saloon. It would lead right to the marshal’s office at Stone Creek.
“Maybe you ought to go back east early,” Rowdy said to Gideon.
“Doesn’t anybody want me around?” Gideon demanded.
Pardner whimpered, raised himself onto his haunches and laid his muzzle on Gideon’s thigh.
Gideon stroked the dog’s head.
Rowdy felt another pang, one that had nothing to do with the topic under discussion.
“You’ll stay right here,” Pa said to Gideon, though his blue gaze drilled into Rowdy’s as he spoke, “and that’s the end of it.”
* * *
WHEN LARK CAME DOWN for breakfast the next morning, Mai Lee was at the stove, as if nothing had happened, frying eggs and humming a tune. Mrs. Porter was there, too, looking much restored, and busily brushing copious dust from a gentleman’s suit coat.
“Mr. Porter’s birthday is coming up on Saturday,” she said. “He always liked to make an occasion of it.”
Lark glanced at Mai Lee, hoping for enlightenment, but the cook kept her small back to the room and hummed a little more loudly.
“And of course I’ll have to bake a rum cake. Mr. Porter did favor my rum cake over anything else.”
Don’t ask, Lark instructed herself firmly, glancing at the calendar, with the red circle marking Saturday’s date.
“Thank heaven Mai Lee will be here to help me with the preparations,” Mrs. Porter rattled on. “She and Hon Sing won’t be moving until the ground thaws out enough to plant vegetables.”
A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1 Page 43