The Peacemaker’s Vengeance

by Gary D. Svee

  “Mac.”

  Catherine Lang was sitting in a chair on the flat rock. Mac couldn’t imagine how he had missed seeing her.

  “Mac, would you please join me?”

  The boy climbed the stairs to the top of the rock just as the sun edged over the east hills, setting the world on fire. Catherine was so enthralled with the view, she didn’t notice Mac’s rasping breath or the ring of sweat around his collar.

  She pointed to the south. “Those mountains. What are they called?”

  “The Beartooths. They call them the Beartooths.”

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  “No. Some people say seeing the Beartooths is like going to church, the mountains making us realize how … small we are.”

  Catherine smiled. “And the rivers?”

  “The Yellowstone down there,” Mac said, pointing with his chin. “And that’s the Stillwater coming in from the Beartooths over there. The Rosebud runs into the Stillwater at Absarokee.”

  “I would have called it the Silver River,” Catherine said. “It shines so in the sun. And the trees along the river?”

  “Cottonwoods, mostly, and cedar and ponderosa pine on the hills.”

  “What’s that spiked plant there on the hill, the one with the huge flowers?”

  “We call it soap weed. You can use the roots for soap. But I guess most places, they call it yucca.”

  “Yucca is such an ugly name for such a pretty plant. And the cactus with those beautiful yellow flowers?”

  “Prickly pear.”

  “They’re prickly, all right.”

  Mac smiled. The place and Catherine and the morning pulled the dread from him.

  “Frank tried to tell me about this place. He has a touch of poet in him. Did you know that?”

  Mac nodded. “When he talks about sego lilies …”

  “Yes, sego lilies. Are there any nearby?”

  Mac pointed toward the edge of the hill. “Might be one or two left.”

  “Would you show me after breakfast?”

  Mad nodded.

  “He tried to tell me about this,” she said, sweeping her arm from horizon to horizon. “But it’s beyond words.”

  “Yes. Sometimes I try to describe it, and I can’t.”

  Catherine smiled. “He thinks the world of you, you know.”

  Mac stared at the rock.

  “Well, he does.”

  “He’s the best man I know.”

  “We’re going to be great friends. You, your mother, Frank, and I.”

  Mac grinned. “I’m glad you came. I’m really glad you came.”

  “Me, too, Mac.”

  Catherine stood, steadying herself with a hand on Mac’s shoulder. It was damp and cool with the sweat of his running.

  “Where did you go this morning, Mac?” she asked.

  “Just for a walk. I just went for a walk.”

  Mac couldn’t tell Catherine what he had seen that morning. He couldn’t tell her why he had felt compelled to check on Jack Galt. He couldn’t tell her why Galt’s laughter had terrified him so.

  Jack Galt stepped through the door into the smithy. Leaks Donnan rose from the shadows and stepped into the light streaming through one of the windows.

  Galt smiled. This would be so easy. “You’ve been a good friend, Leaks, and I’d like to do something for you. You said once that somebody in town has a pistol you’d really like to have.”

  “Charley Remmick’s got a nice Smith and Wesson he wants to let go. It’s real pretty. It’s got ivory handles, and—”

  “What’s he want for it?”

  “Thirty-five dollars, and he’ll throw in two boxes of cartridges.”

  “What would you say if I bought that pistol for you?”

  Donnan looked like a cocker spaniel that had just been told that his master would take him for a walk. “Well, I’ve always wanted one. Never could seem to get the money together. Hell, yes, I’d like that.”

  “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you the thirty-five dollars and an extra two dollars for a bottle of whisky. You take that pistol out and start practicing with it. Pistol ain’t worth a damn if you can’t hit what you aim at. So you practice. Take a coffee can, and you shoot until you can hit it every time from about six steps. That’s about all a pistol is good for, six steps.”

  “Then you stop at the Absaloka, and you have a drink on me. Not every day a man gets a new pistol. Might be you’d want to show some of the other fellows them ivory handles.”

  Donnan’s face was shining.

  “Hell, I can hit a can at six paces. I could do that right now.”

  “Well, it sounds easier than it is. You just have a good time and come back and see me tonight. I got something cooking that will make you cock of the walk. You got that, Leaks?”

  “Hell, yes, I got that,” Donnan said. “Hell, yes, I do.”

  “Just have a nice time, and don’t tell anyone that I gave you the money for the pistol. Okay?”

  The admonition was a formality. Galt knew Donnan wouldn’t tell anyone the pistol was a gift. For a pathetic creature like Donnan, a pistol would represent the only power he ever had. To admit the power had been given to him would diminish it.

  Already the pistol had Donnan in its grip. Galt could read that in the little man’s eyes. Donnan could see himself strutting into the Absaloka, packing that pistol and tossing two dollars down on the bar. Donnan was already seeing the newfound respect in the eyes of the regulars at the Absaloka. They would see him shaded with the power of the pistol. A crooked grin was wrestling with Donnan’s need to keep this moment solemn.

  “You got it?” Galt repeated.

  “Hell, yes, I got it.”

  Donnan took the money and stepped toward the door. He stopped and turned back. “You’re the best friend I ever had, Jack.”

  Galt sneered at Donnan’s back. That pathetic little man wasn’t worthy to be Jack Galt’s friend. No one was. Galt began putting away his tools. He had important work to do. It would require his entire attention.

  Galt stepped back into his room, bending over a trunk. It was just as he had left it. Each shirt was impeccably folded and fitted into the space allotted to it; each pair of socks rolled tightly enough to bounce had they been dropped to the floor. Galt removed each piece of clothing and stacked it carefully on his bed.

  When the trunk was empty, he pulled at a scrap of leather that seemed to have caught in a crack between the bottom of the trunk and the sides. The false bottom of the trunk rose, scuffing against the sides.

  Galt’s secrets were safe there. The trunk had been searched before, but no one had found the hiding place.

  The knife came gleaming into the light, its oiled blade shining like silver. Galt’s hands were trembling as he rubbed the cloth over the blade, ensuring that the oil was spread evenly. Too much oil and a knife picked up dirt and lint. Too little and rust would pit it. Galt kept this knife in perfect condition. The knife was sharp enough to shave with, but Galt would never commit such a sacrilege. Galt had killed his mother with this knife. It was his only defense against her reincarnations.

  Galt’s thoughts swirled back to Billings and Sally Higgins. His mother had clung tenaciously to that disguise. Sally wouldn’t admit she was a whore, not even when Galt was selling her on the street, and Galt had been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to touch her soul. Then he had found the train ticket. She meant to run from him. He couldn’t allow that.

  He had come to her as he always did. But this time he carried the knife. She had screamed when she saw the blade, but he cut the scream short. While she was struggling with death, Galt was doing his work with the knife, cutting his mother from her as his dream had told him to.

  Now he had found his mother’s final hiding place. Killing Catherine Lang would be more complex than the others. Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter complicated matters, but Galt had plans for Drinkwalter.

  Galt was a perfectionist. He left nothing to ch
ance. Planning made him strong, stronger than the men who had hunted him. He had taken their beatings and their accusations, but always he had walked free.

  A chuckle rattled Galt’s throat. He was so strong, and they were so weak. Pathetic little mewling creatures who needed to hide behind law for their killings.

  Galt stood by the forge thinking about the knife and Catherine. His mother would be so surprised that he had found her. He could imagine the look on her face when she saw the knife. He would laugh and laugh and laugh then, the sound of his laughter louder even than her screams.

  This would be a good day for Jack Galt. Tonight would be even better.

  Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter and Catherine Lang sat atop the boulder in the yard of their new home. The day had been glorious, a warm sun softened by a breeze.

  Trees had rustled their leaves as though they were talking to each other, and everywhere Catherine and Mac and Mary were greeted with smiles and soft sighs. It was springtime, and it seemed that the whole community’s thoughts had turned to love.

  The sunset was the only fitting conclusion to the day. The sun painted the sky violet and red and blue and yellow and orange. The two lovers sat enthralled in its light.

  Catherine turned to Frank. “This is so beautiful, I feel guilty sitting here.”

  “While Mary and Mac do the dishes?” Drinkwalter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mary said she wanted to. I think once she sets her mind on something, it’s best to step out of the way. What did you think of Eagles Nest?”

  Catherine smiled. “I think it’s a beautiful place to spend a lifetime.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, we stopped at nearly every shop. Mary has her mind set on buying Mac a suit. She’s been saving money so he can go to college. But she broke into the piggy bank to buy him a suit. I don’t think they were more than at arm’s length all day.”

  “They’re a pair to draw to,” Drinkwalter said. “I can’t see how Mary’s husband ever left her.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Yes, Mac told me a little about it one day. He said his father went off to see where the sun sets.”

  “Isn’t that strange?”

  “I guess he was a wanderer. He stayed around until Mac had a few years on him, and then they went roving. They were never in one place long enough to get roots. One morning they woke up, and he was gone. They followed his trail to Eagles Nest and settled in here.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever come back?”

  “No.”

  “Why would he ever leave his wife and child?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t for the life of me figure that out.”

  “Are you going to leave me, Frank? Are you going to go off to discover where the sun rests at night?”

  “Catherine, I know where the sun goes at night.” Drinkwalter pointed upstream on the Yellowstone. The sun was spraying golds and violets and purples and pinks across the horizon.

  Catherine smiled, and Drinkwalter leaned over and kissed her, forgetting everything but her lips. He pulled away, cupping her face in his hands. “You are my sunrise and my sunset and my noonday.”

  Drinkwalter stood, pulling Catherine to him in a long embrace. When it seemed that they had fused, become one with themselves and the rock and the setting sun, Drinkwalter whispered, “Catherine, will you marry me and come to live with me in this place where everywhere you look there is beauty and friends and love and God?”

  Catherine pulled Drinkwalter’s face down for a long kiss.

  Drinkwalter nodded, and helped her off the rock. He stood looking at her then, as though he had to frame her picture in his mind for all eternity. He turned his back then, to climb into the buggy, and urged the horses down the hill.

  Mac had just stepped out onto the porch. He watched the sheriff until he was little more than a speck on the seat of the buggy as it disappeared into town. Mac would never forget that moment.

  27

  Mac followed Catherine into the house. His mother was polishing the counter in the kitchen. She looked up and smiled at the two. Catherine smiled at Mary and then disappeared into her room.

  Mac sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. “This has been some day.”

  “Like none other,” Mary replied.

  “Will it always be like this?”

  “Do you mean: Will they always be this happy?”

  Mac nodded.

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  She reached down to polish the counter again, then she stopped, sitting down beside Mac.

  “Sometime you will see a girl and she will be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Her voice will send shivers up your back, and you’ll think the heavenly choir is singing.”

  “Pretty as Catherine?”

  “More beautiful.”

  “Pretty as you?”

  “Of course not, Mac. You know that your mother is the siren of the Nile.”

  “Ah, Ma.”

  “Ah, Mac.”

  They laughed, but Mary turned serious. “You will see that girl, and you’ll believe that you cannot live without her. You will believe that the sole focus of your being is to be with her. Most likely, you’ll many her.”

  Mary stared into her son’s eyes, willing him to understand. “Your lifetime will temper that love and make it stronger, just as a blacksmith tempers fine steel.”

  “Not Jack Galt.”

  Mary whispered, “Listen to me, Mac. This is something I’ve been thinking about since I saw those two come together at the depot.”

  “Catherine’s been in Cincinnati caring for her mother. Frank has been out here, trying to make a life for the two of them.” Mary cocked her head. “Their love has already been tested. It is tempered until it rings so loudly, everyone can hear it.

  “Do I sound silly, Mac?”

  “No, Ma. I know what you mean.”

  Both turned to the sound of an opening door. Catherine stepped into the kitchen carrying a dress. She held it up as best she could so they could see it. “I know this isn’t in style, but my mother and my grandmother and my great-grandmother were married in this dress. I … would like to carry on that tradition.”

  “It’s beautiful, Catherine. Absolutely beautiful.”

  “Perhaps you could help me into it. I may have to alter it.”

  Mac sat at the kitchen table, wondering why the image of Drinkwalter disappearing into Eagles Nest so persisted in his mind. He was thinking about that when Catherine and his mother stepped back into the kitchen.

  And when he saw Catherine, he forgot how to breathe.

  The dress was white satin, with a wide skirt favored in the Victorian Age. An overdress of Brussels lace adorned the dress from the waist down. The overdress was scalloped on the bottom, with rows of pink silk flowers ascending to the waist. The sleeves were Brussels lace, too, and they covered the wrists, and at each shoulder where the satin stopped and the lace began, there was a bow. A circlet held the veil in place.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Mac.”

  Catherine turned to Mary, and Mac knew the evening belonged to them.

  “Going down to the river, Ma.”

  “Be careful, Mac.”

  Mac nodded and stepped out into the evening. He walked over to the edge of the hill, eyes seeking the Beartooths to the south. He took a deep breath and plunged over the edge, letting the hill carry him down, watching only to avoid bushes that might hold rattlesnakes. He reached the bottom in a cascade of little rocks and breathed the smell of creosote as he crossed the track to the river.

  The river was high and muddy and yelling at its banks. Cottonwoods swept past, turning and twisting in the current, waiting for the river to decide if they would look better on this sandbar or that.

  Every year the river remodeled its home, shifting meadows from one side to the other, replacing a copse of cottonwoods with a stand of willows. Always the river demanded
change.

  Being around Catherine and Frank and Galt was like being carried along by a hundred-year flood. He didn’t know where he would find safe waters. Mac was frightened. He couldn’t define the dread he felt, so he sat beside the Yellowstone River and looked for answers in those raging waters.

  Jack Galt stepped back from the forge, shrugging his shoulders against the ache. He stepped to a washbasin on his way to his room, filling and emptying the basin with water several times as he scrubbed himself free of the dirt and sweat that had accumulated during the day. He put on a fresh shirt and pair of trousers, straightening his back as he walked back into the smithy.

  “You ready, Leaks?”

  Leaks stepped into the soft glow of the forge.

  “I’m all ready, hell, yes, I’m ready.”

  “Where’s your pistol?”

  “I … uh, I left it over there in the corner.”

  Galt shook his head. “Leaks, you take that pistol and stick it in the front of your trousers. You’re going to be a big man in Stillwater County after tonight. Could be some dime novelist will come out here and write about the exploits of Dangerous Leaks Donnan.”

  “Dangerous Leaks Donnan?” Donnan whispered, a grin flickering across his face.

  “Dangerous Donnan, might be it. Could be they’ll stop calling you Leaks, and just start calling you Dangerous.”

  Donnan glowed.

  “How’d you get the name Leaks, anyway?”

  The smile fled Donnan’s face. “It was … uh, when I was a kid. I couldn’t always … Uh, sometimes, I … uh, wet my pants.”

  “Dangerous Donnan it is, then. No more Leaks Donnan for you, Dangerous Donnan.”

  The glow came back to Donnan’s face. “I’ll get that pistol now. Hell, yes, I’ll wear it in the front of my trousers so people will know how I’ve changed. So people will know I’m Dangerous Donnan now.”

  “You practice like I told you?”

  “Hell, yes, I did. I shot up most of those cartridges.”

  “You hit that tin can every time?”

  “Hell, yes. Well, most of the time. Almost all the time.”

  “Well, your target tonight will be a hell of a lot bigger than a tin can.”