But she smiled. “Why, Zachary Johnson. Are you asking me to marry you?”
He found his face heating up. He hoped he wasn’t blushing.
He said, “I suppose I am.”
She looked over at the bed at the other side of the room. Luke and Mary were lying still. Too still, she thought. She knew they weren’t sleeping.
She said, “Luke. Mary. I have something to ask you.”
They both sat up in bed.
She said, “Zack has asked me to marry him. Do you like that idea?”
Mary nodded.
Luke broke into a big smile. He said, “Does this mean I’d be your son?”
Zack said, “Well, I guess it does. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
Crystal said to Zack, “Well, then, Mister Johnson, I would very happily and joyfully consent to be your wife.”
Mary jumped out of bed screaming out, “Yay!” and ran over to them. Zack scooped her up and sat her on one shoulder.
Luke walked over. After all, he was almost a man and very aware that a man didn’t behave like a child.
They had lost everything but the clothes on their back in the tornado, but Zack had spent a little of the money from the sale of the herd and bought Luke and Mary each a night shirt.
Luke said, “Can my name be Luke Johnson?”
Crystal said, “It sure can.”
Luke held out his hand like a man and Zack shook it. Then Zack pulled him in for a hug.
PART FIVE
The Gunhawk
47
Vic Falcone took the body back to town. He would ask some questions, and try to find out who Moody was working for.
Emily had returned to the farm house, so Carter went and fetched her, and they stayed the night at the McCabe ranch. Harlan figured if Moody had a partner out there, then the folks at the ranch shouldn’t be left alone. Charles was a good young man and a capable cowhand, but he wasn’t a gunfighter. Harlan also didn’t want Emily alone at the house.
While Granny and Aunt Ginny were tending to Fred, Harlan went out to the tool shed with Charles.
Harlan said, “I dragged the body out here. I wanted you to have a look at it. See if you knew him.”
Charles carried a lantern in one hand. He had his pistol on his belt, but he was glad Harlan Carter was here. If trouble arose, he had to admit he wouldn’t know what to do about it.
Once they were in the barn, Charles held the lantern out and over the body. It was covered with a blanket, and Carter pulled the blanket back. Charles took a long look at the face.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”
Carter said, “His name is Moody. An outlaw I knew years ago. A former raider during the war, and a paid killer.”
Charles shook his head. “Did he say specifically what he wanted?”
“Just to put a bullet in you, and this man wouldn’t be coming after you unless he was paid. You got some enemies?”
Charles shrugged. “None that I know of. I’m just a cowhand.”
“In my experience, no one ain’t just anything.”
Charles didn’t quite know how to take that. Was it a compliment, or was Carter calling him a liar?
Carter said, “One man don’t pay another to kill a man for no reason.”
Charles stood in silence for a few moments, trying to let all of this digest. Trying to figure who could be paying a man to kill him.
He said, “One thing I know. I’m so grateful you were here to stop him. If not for you, he would have shot me before I got into the house.”
“‘Spect so.”
“And there’s no telling what he would have done with the women.”
“Out here, even the most black-hearted types usually won’t harm a woman. But you never can tell.”
“How’d you know something was wrong?”
Carter shrugged. “Man like me, the life I’ve lived, you get so you can smell trouble on the wind.”
Charles went back into the house. Emily was upstairs with Granny Tate and Aunt Ginny. Jessica and Haley were getting the children to bed, and Temperence was helping where she was needed.
Harlan Carter, or Carter Harding—Charles never really knew what to call him—was outside. Standing guard, he said, but he wasn’t standing. He was pacing about. Sometimes on the porch, sometimes as far away as the barn.
Charles and Bree went to the kitchen, and Bree poured them each a coffee.
Charles said, “Carter is ever a restless one, isn’t he?”
Bree said, “I’ve been around gunfighters all my life. I think maybe what he did today sort of awakened something in him, and he’s trying to put it back to sleep.”
“I’m sure glad he was here today, though.”
Bree nodded, and took a sip of coffee.
Charles sat and stared at his cup. Bree had grown up around gunfighters. Her father and all three brothers were gunfighters. Even Bree was, to some extent. Even Carter Harding, the farmer from down the trail, was a gunfighter. For the first time since Josh had hired him, Charles found himself feeling out of place.
He knew Bree loved him, even though he was a cowhand and nothing more, especially since he refused to claim his half of his family fortune. He knew Bree was satisfied with him being nothing more than a cowhand. But for the first time, he wondered if he was satisfied with it.
He realized as tall as he was, he felt small around these people. Maybe it had always been that way a little bit. Maybe that was why he had gotten so tongue-tied around Bree early on.
There was only one way not to feel small around these people. He knew what he had to do, and he knew whose help he needed.
48
Carter rode out in the morning and spent the better part of the day riding through the ridges cutting for sign.
He returned in the early afternoon. Emily was still at the ranch house, and she and Temperance had a hot dinner of steak and potatoes waiting for him.
“Found his trail,” he said. “He rode alone. It should be safe for us to go home tonight.”
He took a bite of potato, then said, “I followed his trail all the way back to town. I rode in to Falcone’s office and told him. Doesn’t help much. Falcone is still trying to figure out who Moody rode for.”
The following morning, Charles rode out to the Carter farmhouse. Carter had work to do, but when he saw Charles ride up, he came over. A couple of chickens scurried across the yard, and smoke was drifting from the chimney.
“I want to talk,” Charles said. “I gotta ask you something.”
“Then get down off’n that horse and let’s take a walk.”
Once they were out behind the house, Charles told him, “I want to learn how to fight. I want to learn how to stand alongside the McCabe men and be their peer. Or at least somewhat close to it.”
“That ain’t enough,” Carter said.
When this man talked, he barely opened his mouth, and he had a deep, coarse voice.
Carter stood in a white shirt that was dirty with sweat and smeared with garden earth. Suspenders were looped up and over his shoulders. His hair was cut short and his jaw and mouth were covered with a beard that looked as coarse as wire. If someone had said that he wore the beard because he was so tough there wasn’t a razor made that could cut it, Charles might have been inclined to believe it.
Carter had put his gun away. He normally didn’t carry one, anyway. Charles figured he probably didn’t need to. No man in his right mind would have challenged Harlan Carter. The way he stood, the way he moved. The sound of his voice. It all had a way that said I’m walking death. Don’t rile me up.
But what Carter had just said got Charles a little riled up, and he wasn’t afraid. He said, “What do you mean it’s not enough?”
Carter looked at Charles, but he never seemed to really make eye contact. He had a way of looking past you, or somehow through you.
He said, “Just to hold your own with the McCabes, it ain’t reason enough for me
to teach you what you want to know. Besides, there ain’t all that many who can hold their own with them.”
Charles took a couple of steps. He kicked at a clump of grass.
He said, “I have a girl in my life I want to marry. But she can out-shoot me. She can out-fight me. Last summer, when Aloysius Randall was trying to force his way on her, I tried to step in and save her. You know what happened? He whupped the tar out of me. She ended up having to beat him up to save the both of us. Jesus, do you know how that makes me feel?”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain. Ain’t right.”
Charles looked at him. This man who had probably murdered more men than he could count in raids on farms and towns during the late War Between the States. This man who had robbed banks and stage coaches. You wouldn’t think he would quibble about using the Lord’s name in vain. And yet, maybe it was because of all he had done that Charles found what he said meant more than it ever would have from a preacher.
Charles said, “And that man at the house, who was holding the women prisoner. That man who was waiting for me. He would have killed me, and there was nothing I could have done about it. But you handled him.”
Carter looked down at the grass for a second, then off to the trees at the edge of the valley. “That’s what I done.”
“That’s it right there. I want to be good enough to do what you did. You rode in and stopped him. Saved all of them. Saved me, too.”
Carter said, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Charles said, “I want to be good enough to stand alongside her. I want to feel like I deserve to be.”
“She must think you are. She’s a level-headed gal.”
“I want to be able to protect her. Imagining what might have happened if you hadn’t been there at the ranch kept me up half the night.”
Charles almost said Jesus again, but thought better of it.
Harlan stood tall and looked off at his corn field. Tall, he was, too. Charles was dang tall, and had met few men he had to look up to in order to meet their gaze, but Carter was one of them.
Carter was silent. He pulled a long stem of grass and began chewing on it. The wind blew lightly and a chicken hawk circled high in the sky, off a ways.
Charles didn’t know how he knew this, but he knew to just be quiet and let this man take the time he needed.
Finally, Carter said, “Be here tomorrow. Sunrise. Not a minute later, or the deal’s off.”
“What deal is that?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
49
It was morning, and the sun was barely in the sky. Harlan Carter and Charles Cole stood out behind the house. A rail fence stood there, and Carter had some cans placed on it. Charles figured they were going to do some shooting. He had seen Josh and Dusty firing away at some cans back at the ranch. He had seen Bree do it, too. She wasn’t nearly as good as her brothers, but she was a dang sight better’n he was.
Carter said, “You ever kill a man?”
Charles nodded. “Once. Back in Texas, before I come north. I was just a new hand. Eight Comanches came riding at us. They were painted for war and were whooping and screaming. It was on a trail drive. I was riding flank. All the rifles were in the chuck wagon but I had my pistol on me, and I pulled it out and fired a shot and took one of them clean out of the saddle. Damned luckiest shot I ever made in my life. A couple of the other men stated shooting and took three more, and the other four just turned and lit out.”
“How’d it make you feel?”
Charles shrugged as he thought about the memory. “I don’t know. I just sat in the saddle and looked down at the body. I was carrying a forty-four, and the ball caught him in the face and turned him into a gory mess. He was just layin’ there dead. I guess I felt kind of empty and cold inside.”
“Good. That’s how you should feel. Takin’ a man’s life ain’t no small thing. There ain’t much worse you can do.”
Charles was facing the fence, his gun buckled onto his hip. Carter stood beside him, still and stoic and yet with a sort of energy about him that gave the impression he could kill a bull with his bare hands. He was dressed like he had been the day before, like a farmer, but buckled around his hips was an old-style cap and ball Colt revolver. The one he had been wearing at the ranch house.
He didn’t wear it hanging low and tied down like Johnny McCabe and his sons did. It was riding high on his hip.
Carter said, “You gotta watch your language. No more using the Lord’s name in vain. And no more damn or son-of-a-bitch. Nothing like that. What I’m going to teach you, it’s going to make you in some ways less than you are. The ability to kill a man ain’t nothing to be proud of. You’ve gotta find balance. You’ve gotta make sure every other part of your life is lived above board. No foul language. No heavy drinkin’. You fall out of balance and you’ll lose yourself. I’m speaking from experience, son.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said.
“You’ll notice old man McCabe don’t hardly use a foul word. Neither do his sons. None of ‘em.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Let’s begin. First thing you need to learn is how to shoot.”
Charles felt a little indignant at that. After all, he had taken a Comanche out of the saddle back in Texas.
He said, “I know how to shoot.”
Carter shook his head. “You know how to fire a gun. Ain’t the same thing. I’m gonna show you how to shoot.”
In one smooth, clean motion, Carter’s gun was in his hand and his arm was brought out to full extension and he pulled the trigger, and a can flew away from the fence. Charles hadn’t even seen him pull the hammer back.
It wasn’t quite as fast as Dusty. Charles supposed no one was, not even Mister McCabe himself. But damn, it was smooth. He meant, darn it was smooth.
“Okay,” Carter said. “You got a Peacemaker there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Five shots loaded?”
Charles nodded.
“Load a sixth. I’m gonna show you how to do what I just did. School’s about to begin.”
50
Harlan stood in front of the door of his little farm house and took a look around. It was dark. The breeze that touched his face was cool and with a trace of balsam. The moon rode high in a clear sky. There was a wall of darkness out beyond the farm, and he knew it was actually the ridge that lined this side of the valley.
Everything was at peace.
The family had a dog, though Harlan hadn’t named it because he figured what was the point of naming it when it couldn’t talk or understand what you said? He figured to the dog, the words spoken by a man sounded like gibberish. But his wife and Nina insisted on calling it Scout, for whatever reason. It was a mix of German Shepherd and something else. Harlan had no idea what.
But the dog was reliable. You could depend on him to tell you when something was wrong. When there was something out in the night that shouldn’t be there.
Scout paced about in front of him, sniffing the air, then sat down and looked out at the darkness alongside Harlan. If Scout thought everything was all right, then that was good enough for Harlan.
Harlan went to the door and stepped in, then held the door and looked to the dog. The dog came scooting in. Harlan shut the door.
He didn’t bother to bolt it. Anyone coming into this house unannounced at night—well, it would be their funeral.
The stove was still warm so he heated some water and washed up. Working on a farm can sure raise a man’s sweat. Then he climbed into bed.
Harlan thought Emily was asleep, so he climbed into bed easily, but once he was settled on the pillow, she rolled over to face him and said, “Harlan, is it really necessary? Teaching that boy?”
He said, “I thought you was asleep.”
“I never sleep well unless you’re here beside me. You know that.”
The man seldom smiled, but he allowed himself a grin. He reached over and stroked the
side of her face. “I do know that.”
She said, “So, answer my question.”
“Because he needs to know.”
“As simple as that?”
He shook his head. “It’s never as simple as that.”
She nodded. She understood.
She said, “Couldn’t it wait until the McCabe men are back from their trail drive? Couldn’t Johnny teach him? Or one of the boys?”
Carter shook his head. “Can’t wait for that. The gunman at the house, he was looking for Charles. He was willin’ to kill all the women there if it came to it. More are gonna come gunnin’ for him.”
“Have you asked him why?”
Carter shook his head again. “He don’t know. But he’s a good boy. Got a good heart. Every bit as good as Jack and his brothers. He’s got the wrong kind of men gunning for him. I suppose it don’t really matter the reason. He has to be able to stand against them.”
She looked at him sadly. “It isn’t easy being you, is it? Being the kind of man you are? The kind of man the McCabes call a gunhawk. The kind of man Ginny Brackston calls a knight with a gun.”
He chuckled. “I don’t know that I’d call me a knight. Considering the kind of stuff I done.”
“Whatever you were before I met you, I never knew that man. I only know the man here with me now. And you are so incredibly a knight.”
He chuckled again. “No, I guess it ain’t easy bein’ me. But you make it much easier than it could be.”
51
Charles unloaded his gun on the cans at the fence. Not aiming the gun, but just pointing it, like Harlan Carter had been teaching him. Just letting the weapon become a part of him.
Charles was getting good at it. Generally, his bullets found their targets. But not this morning. He fired six shots, but when the smoke cleared, two cans were still standing.
Carter said, “You’re off your game, boy.”
Trail Drive (The McCabes Book 5) Page 21