Paint the Hills Red

by Ron Schwab

  “You handled him real good this morning, Meg, real good,” Nate said.

  “Why shouldn’t I have?” she asked curtly.

  “Mr. McClure’s about ten paces behind you next to the corral. Do you want me to help you over?”

  “No, but thank you,” she said, again regretting her sharpness with the cowboy. “But you can put Pirate up, if you like. I won’t be riding anymore this morning.”

  “Sure, Meg.”

  Nate Coates unhitched the pinto and led it away as Megan, brushing her fingertips lightly along the fence boards for bearing, walked slowly towards Dan.

  “Good morning, Megan,” Dan said when she was within four or five feet. “It’s been a long time. Too long.”

  Megan halted, grateful for the discrete signal he had given her. “Yes, it has been a long time.”

  “I thought I’d drop by and chew the fat with Sol awhile. Nate says he’s gone, but he seemed a little mysterious about it.”

  “He’s, uh, visiting Mrs. Baker. He should be home by dinner time. He always is.”

  From the sound of Dan’s voice, Megan guessed that he was not facing her, but rather looking out onto the pasture, probably leaning against the corral fence. She turned and rested her own back against the fence, folding her arms across her chest, fixing her sightless eyes toward the meadow.

  “I wish he’d stick closer to home these days,” she said. “Ever since Jubal Haskell was killed, I’ve worried when Sol’s gone too long.”

  “But you know where he’s at now. Are you sure it’s not Mrs. Baker that’s worrying you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Sol thinks you don’t care much for Mrs. Baker. I get the same feeling.”

  “It’s not Mrs. Baker. She’s a very likable person. It’s what she is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I forgot, you’re new around here. Let me put it this way: Mrs. Baker has other gentlemen callers. One for every night of the week, I’m told. Several of them are married men.”

  Dan laughed. “You’re concerned for Sol’s virtue? I’d think he would be old enough to handle that part of his life by himself.”

  “Oh, I know, and he’s been seeing the widow Baker for years. But when I was growing up, I always thought of Sol as sort of a god. Daddy always said that Sol couldn’t do wrong in my eyes. I guess he was right.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Oh, what a shock it was to me when I figured out why Sol was visiting Hannah Baker every Saturday night. For a spell, I was a woman scorned. I was sixteen at the time . . . couldn’t look Sol in the eye for weeks after. I hardly spoke to him. But he won me back. He always did.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly. Be glad for whatever warmth and comfort he receives from Mrs. Baker. Sol’s led a very unselfish life; indulge him in this. And think kindly of Mrs. Baker, too. I sometimes wonder if the Hannah Bakers of this world aren’t doing more to relieve human misery than a dozen pious preachers.”

  Megan thought of the seductive, nude Angela in Dan’s painting. “Of course, I'd expect you to understand people like that better than most.”

  “Maybe,” Dan said, “but I wasn’t talking about prostitutes specifically. I was talking about people in general. It’s damn hard to crawl under somebody else’s skin and know what personal hells they’ve suffered, or understand why people do what they do sometimes. Over the years, I’ve decided that maybe it’s best to let people do what they want as long as they don’t hurt anyone else in the process. You know, I think that’s what this country’s all about but we tend to forget it sometimes.”

  Deep down, she agreed, but was in no mood to concede it. “You have a lecture for every subject don’t you?” She could hear him shift the weight of his feet.

  “Yes, that’s a failing of mine.”

  He was facing her now, but she did not turn toward him.

  “My work necessarily forces me into a somewhat solitary existence, and when I have someone to talk to, I suppose I try to make up for lost time. And for some reason, I seem to run off at the mouth when I’m with you. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t mind. I truly don’t. I’m just witchy today.” He apparently wasn’t going to disagree with her.

  “You were a little tough on Nate,” Dan said. “You shouldn’t be. He adores you, you know. For that matter, I’d say he’s in love with you.”

  “I know.”

  “Marriage?”

  “Maybe. I can’t say, not now.”

  “He seems to be a nice young man. Handsome as the devil. Gentle and considerate. He’s intensely loyal to you. He’d be a faithful husband and an easy man to live with.”

  “Yes, I think he would,” Megan said.

  “But he’s not right for you. You’d make each other miserable. Do you know that?”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t. Well, I suppose I’d better be on my way. I’ll catch Sol some other time.”

  He did not move, and she could feel him staring at her. Damn him. Why did he have to show up just when things were beginning to fall into place? “You can stay for dinner if you’d like,” she said grudgingly. “Sol will be disappointed if he misses you.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble?”

  “No, it wouldn’t be any trouble. There’s plenty for another mouth.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Meg? Mr. McClure?”

  It was Nate’s voice, and Megan sensed an urgency in it. She turned toward the voice and heard the crunch of his boots in the crusty earth, as he dashed toward her. “What is it, Nate?” she asked, her heart pounding like a hammer in her breast.

  “It’s Hannah Baker’s place. Charlie was rounding up some strays over on the east ridge when he saw it.”

  “Saw what?” Megan asked.

  “Smoke. Lots of it. Too much for a chimney,” he said. “Charlie knew Sol was over there, so he high-tailed it back here to get some help.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Megan gasped. She felt her body growing numb and was only vaguely aware that Dan had moved to her side and had wrapped his arm firmly around her shoulders, steadying her there while she sorted out her thoughts.

  “Nate,” Dan ordered, “round up any hands you can find. Tell them to saddle up and be ready to ride.”

  “Ain’t more than two or three on the place, Mr. McClure, it being Sunday and all.”

  “Well, find them.”

  “Yes, sir.” The cowboy wheeled and headed across the yard for the bunkhouse.

  “And Nate,” Dan called after him.

  The cowboy stopped in his tracks and turned, “Yes, sir?”

  “You stay with Megan. Saddle a couple of horses and be ready to ride just in case there’s trouble. Don’t be a goddamned hero, do you understand?”

  Megan, fighting off the shock that had almost overpowered her, stepped free from Dan’s arm. “I’m going, too.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “Who do you think you are? You talk like a damned general or something. It’s my ranch. They’re my hands. I’ll go if I damn well please.”

  His strong hands grabbed her shoulders, gripping them like twin vices, his face nearly touching hers. “Think, Megan. Put your damned pride aside for a minute. Can you keep up with us? Do you want to slow us down? What if there’s shooting? Will you help Sol by being there?”

  A spasm ripped through her belly as she shook convulsively for a moment; her eyes began to burn and tears started to stream down her cheeks. “I’ll stay,” she said. “Now, get going. I can find my way back to the house. I can do that much.” She felt his lips brush across her forehead before he released his grip and hurried away.

  16

  WHEN DAN AND the three Bar G riders rode into the flatland a mile down the valley from Hannah Baker’s farm, he knew instantly the need to hurry was past. Thick, black smoke that curled skyward told him the burning was in its last stages, and all that they would find there would be the smoldering charred remains
of the farm buildings.

  They were downwind, and his army duty in the Sioux wars had taught him the smell of burning flesh, and the stench that seared his nostrils now was decidedly that. He could only hope it was not human.

  It was likely the attackers had departed hours ago, but Dan ordered the riders to spread out as they cautiously approached the smoking rubble that had been a house and barn and other outbuildings. Dan slipped his Winchester from the saddle holster, cradling it across his horse’s neck as they rode in. He signaled the others to hold up as he dismounted and walked slowly into the farmyard. He caught sight of Sol’s twisted body in front of the house; he spied the woman’s off to the side. They had not been spared, either. In fact, as near as he could see, the marauders had not overlooked a single living thing in their slaughter.

  He waved in the riders, went over to Sol’s body, and knelt down. He saw that the old man’s rifle was not far away, so he knew Sol had put up a fight before they smoked him out. The corpse lay face up, but Dan saw no one he recognized there. He had learned to steel himself from death as much as a man could; he did not flinch at the empty staring eyes or the bloody, bullet-shredded chest and throat. He grieved for what was gone, not for the soulless, bloated corpse sprawled in the dust.

  He got up and walked over to the woman’s body. She had been a buxom woman, younger than he would have guessed, probably no more than forty-five. The chestnut hair that framed her face, dirty and matted now, would have been pretty the night before. He could not tell much about her face. She had been bludgeoned to death, probably with a rifle butt, and the contorted broken face and skull gave no clue to her earlier appearance.

  “Bastards,” he whispered. “Murdering bastards.”

  He turned when he heard the muffled clip-clop of hooves behind him and looked up to see three sober-faced cowboys. Charlie Gates, an old hand, shook his head sadly. The other two, like Nate Coates, not much more than boys, stared wide-eyed at the macabre scene. The two sat there, frozen in their saddles, their faces ashen. One, likely both, would chuck up breakfast before their work was finished this morning.

  Charlie Gates dismounted and hobbled over to Dan, one hand resting on a gimpy leg. “I came up from Texas with Sol Pyle and Ben Grant. Now they’ve both saddled a cloud, and I’m the only one left. They shouldn’t have died like this, neither one. Not in these times.”

  “Not in any time,” Dan said, his eyes scanning the rubble and carnage of the barnyard, trying to ferret out an answer, a clue to what happened there and why. And who.

  “What’s going to happen to the little lady?” the stumpy cowhand asked. “First her daddy, then being struck blind, now poor old Sol. Dear God, what’s she going to do now?”

  “She’ll go on,” Dan said softly.

  “Who’s going to break the news to her?” Charlie asked.

  “I will. She’ll be waiting. I’ll head back to the Bar G after I take a good look around here. If you can round up something to dig a grave with, bury the woman. But bring Sol back to the ranch. I don’t think you can scare up an extra horse; you’ll probably have to lash together a travois.”

  Dan paced the barnyard while the cowhands reluctantly started their gut-wrenching chores. From the tracks in the yard, he surmised there had been a half-dozen or more men. They had probably struck about dawn. Hannah Baker was in her nightdress, and Sol was shirtless and barefooted. He’d probably just had time to pull on his trousers after he heard some commotion outside. Dan paused when he spotted splotches of discolored dust some fifty feet in front of the house. He knelt down and touched a finger to the earth. It was sticky and caking, but there was no doubt about it: blood. A lot of it. They had not taken Sol without a fight, and he had done some damage of his own before he surrendered. If he could find out who took a bullet this morning, it would unlock the door to a lot of answers. He had little doubt that the Diamond D, or someone there, was behind the killings and the terrorizing, but he did not want to execute a counter attack without proof. One thing was for certain: he could not paint again while this trouble brewed in the hills. Like it or not, it was time to put down the brush and pick up the gun.

  “Charlie,” Dan called as he headed for his horse. Charlie Gates put down the charred stub of a board that he was struggling to hollow out a shallow grave with and got up and limped over to Dan. “I’m heading back to the Bar G to tell Megan.”

  “You ain’t got my envy for that job,” Charlie said.

  “Charlie, how many small ranchers do you suppose there are in this valley? How many are bounded by the Diamond D?”

  The older man rubbed the stubble on his chin with a calloused hand. “Damn, it’s hard to say, Mr. McClure. Maybe twenty or twenty-five, all told. The majority are one and two man operations. The Bar G is the biggest of the small ones. We have six hands year-round and hire extras in spring and fall. There’s maybe a half dozen three and four-hand ranches. Of course, that don’t tell the story ‘cause I ain’t counting kids for hands, and there’s a passel of big families in this valley. Fertile for cattle and kids, Ben Grant always used to say.”

  “Charlie, would you be able to pick out a half dozen ranchers who could be trusted? More specifically, ones who could be trusted not to carry tales to Woodson Dunkirk or the Diamond D? I need men with influence, but closed-mouthed men, for now. And men with some iron in their bellies. I don’t know these people; I’ll have to depend on you. Could you find them?”

  “Easier than I can brand a sucking calf. It shouldn’t be no chore. Lots of folks in these parts is scared, but there’s some that maybe ain’t scared enough. Just tell me what you want.”

  “Tomorrow, I want you to ride out and talk to those men, tell them about what happened to Sol and Mrs. Baker. Then tell them that Megan Grant would like to have them drop over for dinner Wednesday noon. Just say she needs their help. Don’t mention my name.”

  “This is a busy time of year for daytime socializing, Mr. McClure,” Charlie said.

  “Well, I don’t want to take these men away from their homes at night; they shouldn’t leave their families alone. I think they’ll come during the day, though. From what I’ve seen and heard, there’s not much most of these Pine Ridge people won’t do to help a neighbor.”

  Charlie kicked aimlessly at a clump of dirt. “Mr. McClure, there’s one thing I’ve been wonderin’ about.”

  “What’s that, Charlie?”

  “The sheriff. I don’t suppose it would do much good, but shouldn’t somebody ride in and tell him?”

  “I intend to do that, Charlie. But not till tomorrow or the next day. I doubt if he’ll even bother to ride out, so there’s no hurry. Mr. Keaton seems to know his county; he may already know more about this than we do.”

  The cowboy wrinkled his brow, squinted one eye, and looked at Dan quizzically.

  17

  THE LAWYER’S OFFICE was drab and austere. From an artist’s viewpoint, the color scheme and simple furnishings would be categorized as ugly brown. Lucas Battie, a rotund, bald man with a cherubic face peered over wire-rimmed spectacles at his visitors this scorching Tuesday afternoon. The room was humid and suffocating, and the half-open windows might well have been closed so still was the air outside. Battie dabbed at his forehead with a rumpled handkerchief.

  “If you like, I’ll proceed with the reading,” he said in a high-pitched voice. His face was undertaker grim.

  Dan glanced at Megan, whose own face was expressionless. Damn, she was a striking young woman, even in mourning black. He had never seen her in a dress before this morning. Somehow, it brought out a sophisticated side of her that working ranch garb tried to obscure.

  “Yes, you can go ahead,” Dan said.

  The lawyer read aloud, “Last will and testament of Solomon George Pyle. I, Solomon George Pyle, being of sound mind and disposing memory and being cognizant of the uncertainty of this mortal life, do make and publish this my Last Will and Testament, and do by these presents hereby revoke any previous wills by me s
ubscribed. First, I direct that all my just debts including burial expenses, be paid by my Executor hereinafter named. Second, I bequeath and devise to Megan Alvarez Grant and Daniel McClure, and to their respective heirs, successors and assigns forever, all of my land and real estate wheresoever situated, including the three sections of land leased by the Bar G ranch in Bobcat County, Nebraska, to hold said real estate in fee simple absolute as tenants in common.

  “Third, I bequeath and give to Megan Alvarez Grant, all of my personal effects, horses, cattle, and residue of my property, to have and to hold the same unto said Megan Alvarez Grant, and her heirs and assigns forever.”

  The lawyer paused and wiped at his brow again, looking uncertainly at Megan across the desk. Lucas Battie would glean nothing from Megan Grant’s expression, Dan thought, for it was still passive, almost disinterested. He wondered if she was even hearing the lawyer’s words.

  The lawyer continued reading. “Fourth, I nominate and appoint Daniel McClure as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament, and I authorize and empower him to do all things necessary to execute the terms and conditions of this Will. In witness whereof, I have hereunto put my hand this 28th day of June, 1882.”

  Battie placed the crisp parchment paper on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “The document is signed ‘Solomon George Pyle’. My law clerk, Mr. Stone, and I subscribed as witnesses. I might say it is an exceptionally simple document, but Mr. Pyle insisted upon simplicity. I can assure you it is all legal and valid. Do either of you have any questions? Miss Grant?”

  Megan responded with a barely perceptible shake of her head.

  “Mr. McClure?”

  “I think not.”

  “You might wonder about the specification that the land is to be owned as tenants in common. This means you will own undivided interests, with the ability to pass your share of the property to your own heirs. Also, either of you can force a sale of the whole at any time. You cannot be forced to own it together.” He turned to Dan. “Mr. McClure, Mr. Pyle placed a great deal of faith in you.”