by Rusty Davis
With words whose meanings were a mystery in his ears, Hill left the saloon for home. Elsie would be missing him. She’d been warning him about the job, that the wild men were getting wilder and that nothing was worth all of this. Maybe, as he thought about the stranger, she was right.
CHAPTER TWO
Carrick’s gray stallion—called Beast for no other reason than it was the first name Carrick thought of when he stole him back in Texas—loped along the hard-packed dirt trail northwest out of Lincoln Springs. He had spent the night in the stable. The boy who stayed there nights had already heard about the gunfight, and treated Carrick like a hero. Silly kid.
He forgot about the night as he rode through the valley. He remembered his half-breed friend telling him in a quiet moment before he went away that he’d be back—the browns, yellows, and grays of the rugged land were in his soul. He’d wondered along the road if he had a soul. Guess he had. It was waking up.
The grasses growing wild in the fields around him bent before the wind. Antelope were jumping off to the right; if memory served, there should be a creek bed there that only filled up in the spring where he used to catch frogs. A stand of oaks he recalled as being giants were a lot smaller than he thought they ought to be. Everything seemed familiar, but nothing was the same. He had to keep reminding himself that even if it all felt familiar, it had been ten years—the war, the prison camp, the hospital, Texas, and then two years of doing things he’d rather forget. He had been young back in early 1861 when the old First Nebraska Infantry was raised to save the Union. He felt old now, old in the ways of life—and death. Then he came to Cougar Rock. It was weathered a bit. Maybe more than a bit. He had a lot harder time seeing the cougar in it than he did when he was ten and Grandpa told him the Indian legend about the big cat turned into rocks. Not long now.
The white house was there, ahead. The old shack his folks had lived in was gone. Empty stood in its place. Everyone must live in the big house. Maybe there were kids and they added on to the big house in the back or built a new house on some piece of neighboring land. Maybe he was an uncle. He was getting nervous now. He wondered what they would look like, aged ten years from the day they waved good-bye when he rode this trail away from home. For a moment, he wondered what he would look like to them—a dusty man in a worn brown leather jacket, battered leather hat and trail-worn clothes, unkempt from the trail, riding back to tell them he was their son and nephew. What was left of him. What if everything changed? What if they were mad at him for not writing more? He swallowed hard and rode on. He hadn’t been this nervous since before Shiloh.
Shade from the trees hid the details. Double J? Lazy F? This had been Bar C country then and the ranch house was spruced up to show that this ranch was a cut above the rest. Not now. There was no gate; no fence rails setting off the place. There used to be. He painted them every spring. Somebody lived in the place. Blue smoke rose from a chimney. The heavy shutters for the windows—a vestige of the days when Indian raids were frequent—were flung wide open. Beast rode on with little guidance. Carrick’s eyes were working funny. He had to blink a spell. A woman was out front tending a fire. He’d ridden up to this house in his dreams 10,000 times. She was there in every one. His vision blurred again. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Everything was clear now. The young woman at the fire was not someone from the distant past. She wasn’t wearing a blue dress. She wore a man’s blue flannel shirt and pants. She was small framed and dark haired. She had also stepped back from the fire and was glaring back at him down the barrel of a rifle held in very steady hands. A faint breeze sent a rebellious strand of hair across her face. She was not distracted.
“You got business here?” she called as he and Beast ambled closer, moving slowly to avoid any misunderstanding.
“Not coming to make trouble for anyone. Looking to talk. Tell me, who lives here?” he called back, wishing he’d cleaned up before riding out. It was hard to see her face behind the rifle and the wind-whipped black hair, but the girl did not look familiar. Her family must ride for his. Despite her lack of courtesy, he would try to be friendly.
“I do,” she replied. “Now git.”
From the inside of the house, the voice of an older woman called, “Reb, who are you pointing a gun at now?”
“Some tramp, Aunt Jess. Maybe a spy from Double J. I’ll send him on his way or shoot him.”
Vexed but incoherent sounds of a female voice making its way to the front of the house came to Carrick. The rifle remained leveled.
“That thing might go off,” he told her. He could not place any woman named Jess, and this was the second time a spread called Double J had been mentioned in a threatening way. Some kind of trouble had infiltrated the valley.
“Your worry, not mine,” she replied.
He found himself unexpectedly grinning at the young woman’s grit. He was wondering whether she would really shoot. He could find out. Then again, it might hurt. She didn’t have the look of someone who would miss. Her face was a study in purpose. Yet she lacked the look that comes from killing on a regular basis; there was innocence amid the bravado. For a moment, he forgot about his family and all of his worries as he focused on her. “This the Wyoming brand of range hospitality?”
“Fit for Wyoming’s brand of range bums.”
He hooted out an uncontrolled laugh. Whatever had been in his head as he rode up to the place he lived seventeen years of his life, this had not been it. Maybe this was better. Time would certainly tell. Laughing at life’s joke that was amusing him as much as it was infuriating her, he started to get down from the saddle.
“Don’t.” The girl did not relax an inch. She could have been carved from wood aiming down her rifle at the world.
He took up the challenge in her eyes and flung his leg over. “Are you hard of hearing, tramp? I said not to get down from that saddle.”
He was still laughing as he dismounted and stood with his hand on the pommel of Beast’s saddle. The other was raised over his head in mock surrender. The door to the house opened with a creak of old hinges. A woman a couple of handfuls of years older than the girl, with a streak of gray by her left temple, stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a rag. “Reb, what on earth . . .”
As the girl turned and started to speak, Carrick moved fast and grabbed hard. She wasn’t expecting it. The rifle was out of her hands and into his. As she sputtered, fumed, and swatted at him ineffectually, he handed it to the older woman, who had rushed up beside them. As she came closer, he saw that she was younger than the gray in her hair made her appear. There was a resemblance, but the older woman radiated kindness and peace, even amid the other’s rage.
“Excuse my niece, Mr. . . .”
“Carrick.” The older of the two women knew the name; he could see the look on her face. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a welcome. Not a good sign. The younger one seemed to not know the name at all.
The older of the two women started speaking to him. “We’ve been troubled by range loafers here . . .”
“. . . such as him,” Reb muttered.
“. . . and we’re a bit on edge,” the older one continued. “The way things are here, we don’t get many riders passing through now who aren’t working for Double J or Lazy F or on the run from the law. I don’t know how you found your way here, but since you already got down, please do come in. Excuse the condition of the ranch; we’re a working outfit, not a fancy one.” Her eyes kept looking, as though they were turning over questions her mouth hadn’t gotten around to asking yet. “Reb, I think that cowboys still drink coffee.”
“No need, ma’am,” Carrick replied.
“Good,” shot back Reb. Her Aunt Jess’s face turned even darker.
Carrick was fascinated by the girl. She didn’t have much for manners, which put her about on a par with him. Bar C certainly had one loyal person. He looked at the older woman. “I have a couple of questions about this ranch. I’d like to talk to the owner.”
“You’re talkin’ to ’em,” the younger woman replied. “The answer is no. Only way you get your hands on my land is when you get buried in it. Now git.”
There was a low whispered snarl from the older woman, who seemed to have gone pale after his question. The younger woman contented herself with a glare of disapproval that alternated from her aunt to Carrick. Carrick knew the older woman would have been cussing if she was a man. Or maybe if he wasn’t around. She breathed in deeply and then spoke.
“Mr. Carrick, put your horse in the shade there and come in. We can talk.” The woman’s voice was a bit shaky. It was more a command than a request. “I am Jessie Lewis and this is my niece, Rebecca,” she added with formal courtesy and the touch of a hill country Southern accent.
“You can call me Reb,” the girl interjected. “Get that straight. I don’t let nobody call me Becky. I don’t like that name. It’s Reb, and it was like that before the silly war even though I had to be ‘Rebecca’ because we were Union in Tennessee and nobody understood. Then we came out here the first time somebody heard my name, they about fired at me until I set them straight.” Carrick tried to stifle a snicker; the flash of anger in the girl’s eyes told him he had not done a very thorough job.
Jessie continued as though there had not been an interruption. She seemed to disregard Reb’s flashes of temper the way an experienced cowhand paid no attention to distant flashes of what they called heat lightning. “Rebecca and I would be happy to make you coffee and share what little we have. And, Reb, not another word! Not one more word, not one! We will behave as Christians even if we are the last ones in Wyoming!”
With obvious reluctance, Reb stalked toward the door. The door slammed and a couple of windows echoed the sound as they rattled. Carrick walked Beast into the shade of an oak and tied him. Nothing made sense, but once they got to talking he was sure he would get the straight of it. He wondered if his family had moved someplace else. He was pretty sure from the look of the big house there were only the two women around it. The way he recalled the ranch, there were always kids and dogs running around and hands who should have been doing something else taking a break. This ranch looked empty; the weather-beaten appearance of the house, now that he was up close, looked like a house that had not seen a repair in years. If these women bought the place when his family moved on, they could tell him where the Carrick clan now lived and he could be off. Then he smiled again at the reception from the younger woman. He’d grown up with some girls who were as wild as the boys, but never one like her.
“Oh, no,” said the older of the two women, looking down the trail and blanching. Four men on horseback were slowly plodding down the dirt track to the house. “Francis Oliver and Lazy F again. That man!” Reb had come back from the house at her aunt’s exclamation. She moved beside her Aunt Jess, reaching for the rifle. Aunt Jess shifted it to her other side to keep the weapon out of reach. Carrick wanted to laugh again, but the women were deadly serious as they looked at the approaching horsemen.
Two riders held rifles. One had two guns strapped to his hips. They fanned out behind a distinguished, prosperous-looking red-haired man whose beard marked the steadily advancing gray tide of age. The man wore a white shirt—a rarity on any range—and a hat that looked new. He had on a black frock coat that looked clean. Talking clothes, Carrick thought. Not fighting clothes. The man’s gun was holstered. Something else Carrick could not identify was in the hand loosely holding the reins. Not an attack, then. A threat? Carrick remained in the shade. Whatever this was about, if the women were running the place, he guessed it was none of his affair. He’d wait and find out.
“Good day to you, Jessie. I see you are looking as pretty as a sunrise this fine day.” The man took off his hat, revealing a windswept face that might have been handsome before it was lined with the tracks of age. He manufactured a broad smile that didn’t seem to fit with the tension in his body. His eyes, untouched by the smile, went from one woman to the next. “Reb, how do? Nice to see you without that gun in your hand. I hope we can have us a nice talk here, ladies.”
“Git,” Reb spat back. Carrick snickered at the man’s rebuff and decided the girl hated everybody.
The older woman spoke as the younger one glared, something Carrick figured she must do often. “Francis, please do not bother to get down and please do not bother to ask. I do not mean to be rude, but the answer is no today. It was no yesterday and it will be no tomorrow. I do not want to sell this land, not to anyone, not for any price.” Reb muttered something so softly he only caught the edge in her tone, not the words.
“Jessie, listen to reason. You got no crew to speak of. You can’t protect what land you got and what stock you might have left. Come winter, you won’t be able to afford to eat, either of you. I’m making a generous offer. Jessie, I want you to listen to me. I’m tryin’ to get you to do what’s best for you for your own protection. I have been tryin’ to show you two ladies how much I care for your welfare. Realize, don’t you, woman, that land ain’t worth nothin’ when you get buried in it?”
“Fightin’ talk.”
The rider—surprised by a voice he had not expected—swung his head to face Carrick, who stepped from the shadow of the tree and, on impulse, tossed his Winchester to Reb. She caught it, chambered a round, and pointed it at the rider in one motion, despite an angry exclamation from her aunt. The riders in the background moved in response to the threat, but Carrick focused on the lead one.
Francis Oliver looked closely at Carrick’s face. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Too busy threatenin’ women for courtesy?”
“My business, whoever you are. You got none here.”
“I think I have a real good say in what happens next, partner.”
“Says who?”
“Sam Colt.” The gun was in his hand as though it lived there all of his life. These last two years, it had.
“Goin’ off half-cocked like that fool girl there does is goin’ to cost these ladies something awful. You’re making a mistake, son. Whatever they hired you to do, don’t make a mistake. Let’s you and I talk this out.”
“I’ve lived with a few thousand mistakes. You don’t leave real quick, you’re gonna be making one right now. Bet the girl will get two riders in her first two shots; I’ll get you certain sure with mine. How it is, the way I see things. Go ahead and play it out if you think the wind’s on your side.”
Carrick watched the rider calculate. Francis Oliver looked irritated, almost embarrassed. Something was here more than business. Maybe it was not the chances of success, but the loss of face that rankled. If there had been a threat, it was blunted for the time being. Maybe later it would make sense. Later had to happen, first. None of the Oliver fella’s men had drawn guns. Time to stand down and walk away, if the rider would let it happen.
Carrick holstered the gun. “Guess this little pow-wow is over.” Reb did not lower her gun until the older woman none-too-gently pushed the barrel downward.
The rider spoke with conviction as he looked at the two women and Carrick. “Jessie, I don’t know who this man is, but no one humiliates me. Last thing you need is some hired gun to make things worse. Fightin’ back is only gonna cost you what little you got left, cuz gunslingers never come cheap. You know your choices are to lose the ranch and go broke, sell to Double J, or sell to me. I can offer you something more than Double J. You got to see sense and see clear. You come and talk to me. You got to come and talk to me soon! Don’t let Double J or this cowpoke make you do something stupid. Understand?” He jerked the horse’s head around savagely and pounded away, his men following. Carrick saw him hurl something into the brush along the trail.
Carrick stood with the women. The riders grew smaller. The noise of the hooves faded in the wind.
“Guess that there hospitality of yours is catching, Miss Reb,” he said to the girl, holding out his hand for the rifle. She slapped it hard into his hands.
“Well, thank
you for making things worse!” she exclaimed. “Bad enough we got Double J and Lazy F scrapping over us like dogs for a bone. Now you got Francis Oliver wanting revenge personal-like and that means we have to either beg Double J for help, and I’d rather die, or we have to sell because everyone knows that there’s dead men a plenty to say that Oliver never takes insults lying down. And I don’t want to sell it or lose it because this is my home, no matter who tries to take it away!” The last few words dripped with sobs that overcame them. She rushed into the house and slammed the door once again.
Carrick, regrets running high as they always did after a showdown, spoke to the older woman. Questions flowed through him. How a woman could insist this was her home when it had been his; but they could wait.
“Sorry if this was some business deal I turned on its head,” he said. “Didn’t look like no social visit I ever saw—more like a man seeing how far he could push.”
“Oh, with Francis one never really knows,” Jessie said with a sigh. “He will die trying to wheedle God out of one last acre of Heaven. And as for Rebecca, don’t worry. She has a little bit of a temper but she is a good girl. She is . . . well . . . very devoted to our ranch.”
“Our?” Carrick guessed his family must have moved to a better range, but he could not imagine where that could be.
Jess Lewis was taller than the young woman, physically worn from the toll range work took on a body, but composed as if she was telling someone else’s problems. Her hair was mostly gray with a little black, with dark eyes and an angular, cultured face that bespoke dignity and warmth. In her rush outside, she had not put her hair up and it flowed behind her in the breeze. Carrick could see similarities to the younger woman. There was no gleam of constant battle in her eye, though. She looked like someone who would feed everything from range bums to stray cats. She did.