by Jack Ballas
“Why we gotta talk to Lingo?”
She grinned. “ ’Cause you an’ me always talk to him ’bout ever’thin’ important. An’, cowboy, I don’t reckon neither one o’ us ever gonna have nothin’ more important than what we jest now been talkin’ ’bout.” She put the rest of the gear she’d brought with her in the buckboard, climbed to the seat, slapped the reins against the horse’s rumps, and drove down the trail.
Wes watched her ride off. He frowned. Somehow they’d said a lot without saying much. Neither of them had talked of love, wanting, hurting for each other, but somehow, it had all been said. Wes smiled. He’d wait, and yeah, they’d talk to Lingo about what they’d discovered.
When Kelly walked into the cabin with a load of pots and pans, Emily Lou rushed to the buckboard to finish getting the gear Kelly had taken with her. When she came in, Kelly sat at the table staring at the wall; her expression was one that said, “Everything’s right with the world.” Emily took a chair across the table from her newfound friend.
“I don’t have to ask. I think Wes has finally seen that you’re a woman, a woman with the feelings, emotions, and needs of a grown woman.”
Kelly continued to stare at the wall. She nodded. “Yep. An he’s got them same needs an’ all you said, but even if he’s been a hell-raiser most o’ his life, he’s a gentleman. We never said nothin’ ’bout love—but it wuz there.” She smiled. “I told ’im I wanted to stay on the mountain with ’im tonight.” She turned her look on Emily Lou. “Know what he said? He turned me down, said as how we wuzn’t thinkin’ straight, said we’d talk to Lingo ’bout it.” Her eyes swimming, she shook her head. “Reckon we gonna have to get Lingo’s sayin’ it’s all right even when we decide we gonna do what all men an’ women do.” She sniffled, blew her nose, and grinned. “Know what? I figger it’s what we oughtta do. Even though that big man ain’t much older’n me an’ Wes, he’s been almost a daddy to us.” She nodded. “Yep. We gonna talk to Lingo ’bout it.”
Emily pulled Kelly to her breast and hugged her, and while holding her close, a knot formed in her throat; she couldn’t swallow, tears flooded her eyes, and the pride she felt for the big man who had so recently come into her life swelled her chest. Why should she feel this way?
She was beholden to him—even more than that, it was such a weak word for saving her from the most degrading experience a woman could suffer. Gratitude—yes, and many other words that would say “thank you.” But at the ground roots she had faith that he would make the right decision. Was her faith justified? She would not try to answer that question . . . yet.
Lingo went from the saloon, got himself a room, and ordered hot, not warm, but hot bathwater. He waited. About a half hour after sitting in the only chair in the room, a light tap on his door sounded. He slipped his Colt from its holster and turned to the door. “It’s unlocked.”
Sam pushed through the door, a lopsided smile sliding his lips to the side, and a jug of whisky in each hand. “Jest wanted to tell you, ain’t a miner in town what wouldn’t buy you a drink, an’ welcome you into bein’ a miner.”
Lingo stared at his friend. “You’re drunk.”
Slagle opened his eyes wide, stared at Barnes, and walked to sit on the bed. He nodded. “Yep. Figger I’m a leettle less than sober, an’ ain’t said a word to no one ’bout us bein’ partners, but this here’s a day to celebrate. You done whipped the worst bully in the state, I done won more gold than I can take outta our mine in a month, an’ you done made more friends than either one o’ us can count. Danged right I’m just a leetle drunk.”
Barnes stared at his friend a moment. A warm feeling flooded his chest. He knew then that he’d made a real friend, a friend he could ride the river with. He smiled, and his insides smiled with him. He was the luckiest man in the world. The kid he’d taken under his wing had grown to be a man to be proud of, he’d found a new friend to partner up with, and he’d met the most beautiful woman he ever hoped to meet but—why had he included Emily Lou in the avalanche of good luck he was having? He frowned. He didn’t want to think about that yet.
He looked at his partner, then grinned. “Well, partner, I reckon we’ll know whether it’s a day to celebrate when I have to meet that short little bastard with a gun in my hand, an’ I figure he’s not all talk. He may be right handy with that six-shooter tied to his side. Every time I pulled a gun on ’im, I did it before he had an idea I intended to make a draw.”
“Aw hell, Lingo, I figger ain’t any two men in Colorado can beat you to the draw. I seen the slick way your gun comes to hand. You’re fast, man. I ain’t never seen nobody who could beat you.” He popped the cork on one of the bottles he’d brought into the room, poured a glassful, looked for another glass, and not seeing one, handed the glass to Lingo who took only a sip and handed it back.
Sam grinned, took a swallow, and shook his head. “Ain’t told you yet, but I seen you in a gunfight in Abilene. You took on two o’ Kansas’s fastest gunfighters and beat ’em seven ways from Sunday.” His grin widened. “Hell, you gonna beat that there runt, an’ give ’im time to git ’is .44 clear of his hoster ’fore you even start your draw.” He opened his eyes wide. “Ain’t gonna tell nobody I seen you draw, an’ damned sure ain’t gonna tell nobody we’re partners.” He toppled back on the bed. Out cold.
7
SHORTY GATES LED his partner to the cheapest hotel in Durango. The fact was, it was a one-story building, half of it with rental rooms, and the other half reserved for soiled doves and their friends for the night. When the proprietor got enough women of that bent, he had less rooms to rent to tired customers.
Shorty told the man when he checked in that he wanted a pan of warm water. The proprietor told him to get his own water, cold or hot—he didn’t give a damn.
Gates steered his partner to the bed, pushed him back, gently, to lie on the bed, then went to warm a pan of water. He wanted to bathe the blood from Bull’s face, then see if he could open his eyes enough to see. He’d never seen a man take such a beating. He fingered the grip of his Colt .44. He’d even the score when he and Mayben could work together again.
While water warmed, he glanced at the shell loops on his gunbelt. Empty. That cowboy had not taken any chances. He’d buy a box of cartridges come morning. He didn’t think Bull would be able to get out and around this night.
When the water heated to Shorty’s satisfaction, he gently sponged dried blood from each of Bull’s eyes. They were swollen closed. “You see anythin’ outta either eye, partner?”
Bull shook his head. Gates grimaced, then sponged around Mayben’s blood-encrusted lips. “What the hell you tryin’ to do, start them to bleedin’ all over agin?”
“Jest tryin’ to git your mouth so’s you can open it ’nuff to git some whisky in to gargle with. You gotta git the blood out, along with them loose teeth, them you ain’t already spit out.”
Bull moaned, winced, and opened his mouth enough for Shorty to pour some of the rot-gut whisky in. Before more than a dribble could touch his raw and bleeding gums, he spewed the whisky out between his lips. “Damn! You tryin’ to torture me? Ever’thin’ in my mouth hurts.” He brought his right hand to touch his cheekbones. “He cut my face up some, too, didn’t he?”
“Bull, I had a gun in my back the whole time, or I woulda stopped it. That cowboy wouldn’t knock you out. He done that on purpose. He kept on hittin’ every place on your face what wasn’t already cut an’ bleedin’.” And, although Bull couldn’t see him, he shook his head. “He kept on hittin’ you like he had a score to settle more’n jest from us tryin’ to keep ’im from drinkin’ in that there saloon. Ain’t nobody gonna git as mad as he wuz jest from us pickin’ a fight with ’im.”
Through his bruised and lacerated lips, Bull grunted, “Don’t know what he coulda had agin’ us other than that. We ain’t never seen ’im ’fore, less’n o’ course we had trouble with ’im on our back-trail somewhere.”
Shorty nodded. “That might be it
, but seems like we’d a remembered him.”
“Well, we don’t, so git on with gittin’ my face cleaned up, then I’m gonna sleep ’til I cain’t sleep no more, then we gotta talk ’bout how we gonna git even. I’m gonna put a bullet in that bastard’s back, but we cain’t do it here in town.”
Barnes let Sam sleep off his unaccustomed drunk before waking him for breakfast. Slagle groaned, pulled the covers up around his chin, cracked one eye, and peered at Lingo. “Let me sleep awhile. Gotta git them whisky fumes outta my head so’s they won’t blow the whole top o’ my skull off.”
Lingo grinned. “Sleep long’s you want. We aren’t gonna be seen together anyway. I’m goin’ to the cafe across the street an’ eat breakfast, if my sore bones an’ muscles’ll get me there.”
The big miner nodded, grimaced, and said, “You sore all over, huh?”
“Sore? Man, I’m not just sore: I hurt, really hurt, but I’m gonna eat, then move around town, see if Emily Lou minded what I told ’er to do. ’Course, as worried about her pa as she is, she mighta kicked over the traces and come in town to see if she could find ’im.” Lingo walked stiffly to the white porcelain water pitcher on the nightstand and poured himself a cup of water. He drank it, then checked to make certain his holster was tied tight to his thigh, settled his Colt in it, and looked at Sam. “If Em’s not in town, think I’ll ride out to the ranch an’ see how things’re goin’. Wantta come?”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you outside o’ town on the Chama trail in a couple o’ hours. Gonna sleep a little more first.” With those words, Slagle pushed his head deeper into the pillow, and snored before Lingo pulled the door shut behind him.
Barnes didn’t expect trouble out of Gates this morning; and certainly not Mayben, but he flicked the thong off the hammer of his Colt before walking from the hotel. He searched every place a man could hide to take a shot at him before he stepped onto the street to angle across to the cafe.
It seemed that every miner he met had something friendly to say to him. One said, “Hey, young’un, I bet agin’ you last night; cost me ever’ danged dime I had—but it wuz sure worth every penny o’ it.”
Lingo stopped, came back to the man, reached in his pocket, and pulled out four or five cartwheels. “Bet you haven’t eaten breakfast if you’re broke.” He held out the silver dollars. “Here take this to eat on ’til you get back to your mine.”
“Naw now, hell, I ain’t takin’ your money, ’sides it wuz worth walkin’ ’bout with an empty stomach.”
Lingo pocketed the money, flicked a thumb toward the cafe. “C’mon, I’ll buy you breakfast; an’ you damned well aren’t gonna say no. Fact is, I’ll take it as unfriendly if you do.”
The miner grinned. “Since you put it that way, reckon I cain’t refuse. ’Sides that, my stomach would raise all sorts o’ hell if I did.”
After eating, Lingo walked about town, looked in every store to see if Emily might be in it, and moved on to the next one. Finally satisfied that the petite girl had done as he’d told her, he went to the livery, saddled his horse, and rode about a quarter of a mile toward Chama, then pulled his horse under some trees, packed his pipe, lighted it, and settled back in the saddle to wait for Slagle.
Sitting there, alone, smelling the pure clean air, scented with pine and spruce, he mulled the few things over that he knew to be fact. Despite Slagle finding the name of the person who wore the low-quarter shoes, Lingo finally cast that name, Randall Bartow, aside. He had nothing—except the shoe prints at Colter’s mine site, along with Mayben’s and Gates’s—to tie them together. Besides, Bartow and Colter might be friends.
His thoughts went to Emily Lou. He was accustomed to stepping in and assuming leadership in situations, so it didn’t seem strange that she and most of those he knew accepted his role as leader and willingly followed. What did seem out of the ordinary was how calm she remained when her entire world fell apart around her. Calmly, she accepted that he knew what to do—and could do it. That thought caused him a twinge of discomfort. But, it didn’t make him uncomfortable enough that he could push aside how much beauty she had packaged in that petite body of hers; beauty that came from the very core of her being. He took a drag on his pipe, exhaled, and shook his head. He had to stop thinking of her that way, or he’d convince himself that they meant more to each other than was possible with what little they knew of each other.
Then his thinking centered on Wesley and Kelly. He smiled to himself; they were no more than children in the ways of the world. He wondered how long it would take Wes to realize that Kelly had grown up and that she was as pretty a woman as he would probably ever look on; and that with growing up she had cast aside thoughts of any other man.
He chuckled at the thought that they both, yeah, even Wesley, thought of him more as a father than a friend. Hell, he wasn’t much older than Wes.
The slow plodding of a horse broke into his thoughts. He looked down the trail. Sam rode toward him. He sat the saddle like it was an enemy. He sat stiffly, not allowing his head to bounce or move from side to side; he sat as though he’d come apart at the seams if he moved an unnecessary part of his body, and his expression was that of a man being submitted to extreme torture, Apachelike torture.
Lingo kneed his horse into the trail. “Howdy, partner. Looks like you’ve got some rough times behind you.”
Sam moved only his eyes to look at Barnes. “Ain’t got nothin’ ’hind me that’s as bad as I got ahead o’ me.” He squinted a bloodshot eye at Lingo. “You ever gonna have ’nother fight, or you see me ever take ’nother drink o’ that there pop-skull whisky jest go on an’ shoot me right where I stand. Be a helluva lot more con-considerate o’ my feelin’s that way.”
Barnes stifled a laugh, swallowed, and trying to make his voice sympathetic, shook his head. “Aw hell, Sam, reckon I’ve done the same thing before. After deliverin’ a herd o’ longhorns to trail’s end I’ve been known to drink too much o’ that cheap whisky. We all been guilty o’ that.” He chuckled. “But I’ll tell you somethin’; I won’t hold you to havin’ me shoot you if you take another drink. Fact is, I figure when we get to my valley, I’ll take one o’ these bottles outta my saddlebag an’ we’ll have a drink of good whisky. It’ll sit right on top of that bad stuff an’ make you feel better right off.”
A quick pull to the side of the trail, a lean to the side of his horse, and emptying his breakfast onto the dusty soil was Sam’s only response. He brightened up after that. “Let’s git on up to your valley; figger I’ll live ’til then.”
Lingo chuckled, kneed his horse ahead, and led the way toward—Emily Lou? Why did he think of going home in that manner?
He led them across meadows speckled with late-blooming flowers, down into narrow valleys, and then up a steep, climbing rocky trail.
Ahead of them the trail pinched off to not more than wagon width. The metallic sound of a rifle lever pushing a shell into the chamber caused Barnes to halt his horse, hold his arm out in front of Slagle, then look toward the fold in the rocks where Wes should be. “Wes? That you?”
“What’s the matter with you, Lingo, don’t you never trust me to do the job you done give me?”
Barnes chuckled. “Only wanted to make sure they hadn’t sent an army against you, an’ taken the pass. Come meet my new friend, Sam Slagle.”
When Wes came around the fold of rock, Sam extended his hand. “Well, damned if you ain’t a full-growed man. Way Lingo’s been talkin’ ’bout you I figgered you might be not more’n knee-high to a tall Indian.”
The poisonous look Wes cast at Barnes brought a deep chuckle to Lingo’s throat. “Don’t let ’im kid you, young’un. I been tellin’ ’im ’bout you growin’ to be a man along those cattle drives we made together.”
Eyes cast heavenward, Wes shook his head. “Lord, seems like I ain’t suffered enough what with havin’ to put up with Lingo. Now you done sent another varmint to give me a bad time.” He lowered his eyes to look at Sam, grinned, and grasped
the big man’s hand. “Howdy, Sam, don’t know how you put up with bein’ round my boss, but I reckon we all got to make mistakes so’s we learn the hard way.”
After they’d gotten off on the right foot, the way many men do who turn out to be fast friends, Barnes led them around the fold in the rocks. He swept the area with a glance, and grunted with satisfaction. “See Kelly’s been up here takin’ care o’ you, an’ cleanin’ up the area fast as you mess it up.”
A huge grin split Higgins’s lips. He nodded. “Yep. You ain’t gonna pull my rope on that one, Lingo. That girl’s done took care o’ me like she wuz my ma. She’s fed me, brought firewood up so’s I could stay warm at night, took my dirty clothes back down the mountain and washed ’em, why gosh darn it, she’s been all a man could ask for.”
Lingo studied his young friend a moment, then nodded to himself. It looked like Kelly and Wes had discovered each other at last. A warm feeling flooded his chest. He looked at Slagle. “Kelly’s the young’un I been tellin’ you ’bout. To be so young, she sure takes hold o’ things, gets ’em done right good.”
Wes took the bait. “She ain’t as young as Lingo lets on, Sam. Fact is, she’s danged near as full-growed as me.”
“Wondered when you were gonna notice that. She’s as much woman as you are a man.” Lingo reined his horse down the mountain. “C’mon. Ain’t nobody followin’ us. We’ll get Sam acquainted with the womenfolk.”
Wes frowned. “How you know they ain’t nobody on your back-trail?”
Slagle chuckled. “Barnes took care o’ that right handy. Tell you ’bout it when we get to your cabin.”
When still about fifty yards from the cabin, Lingo yelled, “Hello the cabin. We’re ridin’ in.”