by Jack Ballas
When he pulled the door open, he sucked in large gulps of air—some from fear, some from exertion. Maddie looked up from mending one of his socks. “Gracious goodness, Randall, what’s got into you? Someone after you?”
He stared at her a moment, still panting. “No, there’s nothin’ or nobody after me. Pour me a drink, then find me a sheet of paper an’ an envelope. I got a letter to write.”
She gave him a knowing look, a look that said she knew he’d been afraid of the dark. Then with a smug smile she poured him a drink.
While he knocked it back, she rummaged through a drawer and found pencil, paper, and an envelope. When she handed the material to him, she asked, “Who you gonna write, Randall? Where they live? You ain’t never told me where you come from.”
He slanted her a look, his eyes flat, his brow furrowed, and his lips curled in contempt. “Not a damned thing you asked me is any o’ your business. Now shut the hell up an’ pour me another drink.”
She shrank from him and picked up the bottle. She wondered why she stayed with him. He treated her like a dog. Her questions had only been an attempt to start a conversation—something they never had.
At the same time, she questioned what she’d seen in him. She thought perhaps his smooth manner, his Eastern dress, and the way he treated her, at first, gave promise of a better life than the one she’d known. She made up her mind then: When she saw an escape, she’d take it. Whatever it promised could not be as bad as this.
She watched his glass and as soon as he emptied it, she poured another. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he’d pass out. That would give her the rest of the night to herself. She’d not have to listen to words that took away any vestige of self-respect. She’d not have to put up with his pawing her body, and her having to fake a response to his animal-like advances. He knocked back the drink she’d poured, smoothed the sheet of paper on the tabletop, and proceeded to write whoever it was he was writing. She poured him another drink.
He knocked back that drink, finished his letter, put it in the envelope, wiped some glue on the flap, and sealed it. She watched the envelope being sealed, sighed, and poured him another drink. She’d not be able to read the letter and maybe find out where he came from, but from experience, she knew with the drink she’d only that moment poured, he’d lie back and wouldn’t waken until morning. Maybe, like in the past, he’d go someplace else to mail it; not Silverton, not Durango, probably Chama. She sighed, hoped she was right; that would give her about a week to herself—a week of peace.
The next morning Bartow wakened, raised hell because breakfast wasn’t on the table, and told her in the same breath to pack him enough clothes for a week.
When she’d finished both tasks, she fidgeted, then looked at him. “Randall, you gonna be gone a week I need a little money to buy food with; ain’t enough here to last that long.”
He stuck his hand in a pocket almost devoid of coins. He had to find money somewhere, and fast. He’d spent most of what he’d had been able to locate—money that Colter kept for living purposes. He decided to take Gates and Mayben with him. Although not good for much else, they’d be of help if he ran into easy pickings.
Early that morning, while Bartow rounded up his two henchmen, Barnes sat in the cafe. He’d finished breakfast, took the last swallow of his coffee, decided he didn’t want more, tossed the proprietor a two-bit piece, and went to the stage station.
“Howdy, need to bother you again.” He pinned the postmaster with a questioning look. “Would it be illegal for you to watch the mail an’ tell me where mail came from when mailed to a certain person here?”
The man frowned, obviously thinking about what Lingo asked. Finally, he shook his head. “Cain’t think o’ no regulations I’ve read that says I cain’t do that. What you want to know?”
Lingo grinned. “You reckon you could keep it under your hat that I asked you to do this?”
The postmaster, whose name was Braun, shrugged. “Don’t see as I would have reason to tell no one. All I do when they ask for their mail is look through the stack, an’ if they got any I give it to ’em. Don’t usually have no more conversation with ’em than that.” He nodded. “Yep, I got a pretty big hat. Ain’t gonna let slip you been doin’ anythin’ ’bout checkin’ on anybody.”
Barnes smiled. “Thanks, amigo. The name I want you to keep tabs on is Randall Bartow.” He stuck his hand across the counter, shook Braun’s, and when leaving, said, “Next time I see you in The Golden Eagle I’ll buy you a drink.”
Braun nodded. “Gonna hold you to that.”
When Lingo left the stage station, he thought to collect his horse and go to his ranch. He wanted to make sure Wes, Kelly, and Em were all right. Then he decided to stay around town, see if Gates or Mayben were around, maybe find what they were up to, maybe something that would lead him to their boss.
He loafed most of the day, shopped for a few things he didn’t need, then seeing women’s things—dresses, jewelry, cosmetics—made a decision to start thinking about Christmas presents. He shrugged mentally. It was too early to buy anything yet; he had plenty of time. He smiled to himself. He’d heard somewhere that most men put off doing things, especially shopping, until the last minute. He shrugged, and reckoned there was no reason for him to be different.
About midafternoon, he sat in front of the mercantile store, watching wagons, surreys, buggies, men on horseback, and pedestrians clog the street and boardwalks on each side. His gaze shifted to the end of the street toward Animas City and Silverton. Three riders. He studied them a moment, then nodded. A surge of energy pumped through him. Mayben, Gates, and a man he’d not seen before, but one dressed in Eastern fashion. He would bet he looked on Randall Bartow. If true, he believed he’d made a good step toward identifying the man Gates and Mayben took orders from. But he needed much more to make certain. He’d keep a close watch on the Easterner.
He thought they would pull rein in front of the Big Gulp saloon. They didn’t. They rode straight through town. He made sure which trail they took. Chama. He’d not follow them this time, but would later. If they headed for Chama, they’d be gone a few days. He’d take those days to go to the ranch.
He stood. It was too late to make it all the way to the ranch, so he changed his mind about following the three men. He’d follow them only far enough to ensure they were not headed for the pass going into his hanging valley.
By the time he’d saddled his horse and gotten on the trail to Chama, the three were only specks in the distance. He stayed behind them until certain they didn’t head up into the mountains toward his ranch, then reined his horse back toward Durango. On the way he had an idea, and wondered if he’d put himself outside the law if he did it. He stopped by the marshal’s office.
Sitting with a cup of Nolan’s coffee—almost thick as paste—in front of him, he eyed the marshal. “Nolan, I’m not askin’ you to approve what I’m gonna suggest. I just want to know what you think ’bout it.”
Nolan’s eyes crinkled at the corners, about as close as Lingo had seen him come to a smile. “Ain’t gonna know what I think ’til you tell me what you got on your mind.”
Lingo took a sip of Nolan’s mud, grimaced, then leaned across the desk. “I got an idea that if I got inside Colter’s mine there’d be somethin’ in there to tell me what’s happened to the old man.” He sat back, spread his hands palms up, and hunched his shoulders. “The hell of it is, that mine’s got a door looks like Colter mighta sawed trees ’bout six-inches thick to make it out of, an’ it’s got a padlock on it. I have it in mind to break that lock, go in an’ see what I can find. How much trouble will I be in if I do that?”
“You askin’ me to approve what you jest told me?”
Lingo shook his head. “Not askin’ that at all. Know you don’t have jurisdiction outside o’ town. I just want to know if I’ll be in any trouble with the law?”
The marshal toyed with his cup, picked up Barnes’s cup, stood, went to the door, and tossed t
he dregs of each cup into the street. He came back, reached in his bottom right-hand drawer, and pulled a bottle from it; he then poured them each a cup full of whisky.
He closed his eyelids down to a squint. “You ain’t got no right to go in that mine, ’less you find somethin’ in it to indicate somebody’s done harmed the old man”—he gave a jerky nod—“then, young’un, you gonna be in a heap o’ trouble.”
Silence fell between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Lingo watched Nolan’s throat bob with a swallow of the drink he’d poured them, then he took a swallow. “Nolan, there’s a way I could do it an’ make it legal, but I’m not ready to go to those lengths yet.”
A hard smile broke the corners of Nolan’s lips. “You thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ Colter’s daughter involved?”
Barnes’s neck muscles tightened. He should know by now the salty old marshal would be way ahead of him when it came to plotting. He nodded. “That’s what I was thinkin’; but like I said, I’m not ready to go to those lengths yet.”
“Jest be damned sure if you do have to rely on her you can keep her safe.”
Lingo sighed. “That’s one thing you can bet your best saddle on. She’s one helluva beautiful an’ spunky woman. I like ’er—a lot. There’s no way I’m gonna jeopardize her.” He shrugged, gave Nolan a chagrined smile, and shook his head. “If I give any hint to her what I have in mind there’ll be no way I can keep her from goin’ ahead with bustin’ in the door.”
“You got any idea yet who ramrodded them men takin’ ’er off’n that stage?”
Barnes nodded. “Got a pretty good one, but I can’t prove a damn thing. I’m gonna work on that next.”
“You ready to tell me what you done come up with?”
“Nope. Soon’s I have somethin’ with absolute proof, I’ll let you know, then I’m gonna lure them to town an’ get you to arrest ’em.”
“ ’Fraid you wuz gonna say that.”
Lingo grinned. “Marshal, I’ll tell you what’s a fact. You won’t be standin’ alone. There’ll be a whole bunch o’ us to help you. I’ll make sure of that.”
He knocked back his drink, stood, shook the marshal’s hand, and left. He went to the hotel, packed his gear, and made ready to get on the trail for the ranch the next morning.
After letting Wes know it was him coming up the pass, Lingo rode up to the cabin with him. Emily was first out of the door. She stopped short of throwing herself at Lingo when he stepped from the saddle. She stood, her face red, a huge lump in her throat, then he held out his arms to her. “Aw hell, little girl, c’mon, give me a hug; I need one, especially from you.”
She launched herself into his arms. If he said he needed a hug “especially from her,” she’d surely give him one.
“Oh, Lingo, I’ve been so worried about you.” She stood back and raked his tall frame with a searching look. She smiled. “Don’t see a sign that anybody’s been shootin’ at, or pounding on you in any way.”
A slow shake of his head told her he was all right. “Nope. Reckon I’ve been real careful to keep my pretty pink body outta harm’s way. I’m right sensitive to pain.”
She pulled her mouth to the side. “If I hadn’t seen you in action, I might believe that. Come on in. Tell us why you think it’s all right for Wes to be down here with you. You have it all settled?”
He snorted. “Wish I could say ‘yes’ to that question, but I’ll tell you this much: I believe I’m a lot closer to findin’ answers to a lot o’ things now than the last time I saw you.”
“You gonna tell us what those answers are?”
He shook his head. “Not yet—but soon, I hope.”
She noticed that Wes had his arm around Kelly’s shoulders, and wondered if they’d decided to tell Lingo how they felt about each other; Lingo, too, glanced at them and a slight smile broke the corners of his mouth. She knew then what his reaction would be.
“Well, for goodness sakes, we gonna stand out here an’ talk, or we gonna take this big man inside and feed ’im.” She looked at Lingo. “I know you must be about starved.”
“Just about, little girl.”
After supper, drinking coffee, Wes and Kelly squirmed, took a swallow or two of their drink, looked at each other, then looked away. Finally, Emily shook her head and pinned Wes with a no-nonsense look. “All right, you gonna tell ’im, or you want me to?”
Wes gave her a hard look. “Ain’t never asked nobody to ride broncs what I done cut out for myself.” He looked at Kelly; she gave him a slight nod. He turned his head to look into Lingo’s eyes. “What I wantta know, boss, is how you gonna feel if I tell you I wantta court Kelly.”
Emily choked back a laugh when Lingo put on a severe, chastising look. He pinned Wes with a hard look. “You said anythin’ ’bout all this to Kelly yet?”
Wes shook his head. “No, sir. Reckon we both knew what I wanted to do, but figgered we better ask you first.”
“You both figured it that way?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, damnit, don’t reckon I’m the one you oughtta be talkin’ to. Turn around, look into her eyes, an’ tell ’er you love ’er—or don’t you feel that way?”
His face red as a Texas dust-laden sunset, eyes hard as granite, Wes gazed at Lingo. “They ain’t no other reason a man would want to court a woman far’s I can figger; less’n o’ course he’s a piece o’ slime, an’ I don’t figger you put in all that time raisin’ me for me to be that way.” He took Kelly’s hand in his. “C’mon, girl, ain’t gonna do like he said; gonna tell you in private. Ain’t none o’ Lingo’s damned business what I say to you.”
A laugh rumbled up from the bottom of Lingo’s chest. When he could get his breath, he nodded. “Get on outta here, tell ’er what you figger you haven’t said yet, then come back an’ we’ll talk ’bout findin’ a preacher.”
Wes stared at the floor a moment, then raised his eyes to Lingo’s. “Damn you, boss, I reckon you knowed all along ’bout us.”
“Yep, just wondered how long it was gonna take y’all to notice you were grown, an’ had the right to figure things out for yourselves.” He turned his eyes on Kelly. “Figure you got your feelin’s sorted out long before Wes did. I was ’bout ready to give ’im a shove in your direction if he hadn’t waked up soon.”
Kelly grabbed him about the shoulders, stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, layed her head against his chest, and looked at Wes. He stood there grinning like a mule eating briars.
For the first time since coming to Lingo’s valley, Emily felt left out—not part of this close-knit family. She twisted to pick up the coffeepot.
Lingo’s brawny arm shot out, encircled her shoulders and pulled her to him. “You’re as much a part o’ this as you want to be, little girl.” His eyes twinkled, his brow furrowed, and he smiled into her eyes. “An’ the way I have it figured you want to be part o’ our carin’ for each other as much as we want you to.”
She stared at him, and never breaking her gaze, nodded. “In some ways, mostly in different ways. They look on you like a big brother—almost as a father.” She shook her head. “I don’t look on you as either.”
“An’ how do you look on me, little girl?”
Her face flamed, but she still held his gaze. How had she let their conversation take this twist? “Lingo Barnes, a lot has to take place before I answer that question. Suffice it to say, I want to be a part of the caring I see between all of you.” She stepped out of his arm and picked up the coffeepot. Where his arm had held her shoulders was almost as warm as the coffeepot, and they tingled as though in anticipation of feeling his arm holding her close again. She swallowed against the tightening in her throat. What was the matter with her? She’d never felt this way before, never thought she could feel this way.
She poured them each a cup of coffee. While they were drinking, Lingo told them about the men he suspected were working together. Then he looked at Emily. “Now I’m not gonna tell you who I think they are, other than the t
wo who’re left of those who took you off the stage, but I b’lieve I’m right close to figuring out who the boss is.
“When I’m sure, real sure, I’ll come up with a plan. I’ll need your help then.” He frowned and shook his head. “I want to keep you out of it long’s I can, keep you safe as I can, but there’s gonna come a time when I’ll need you to step up an’ identify them.”
Emily’s stomach knotted, her supper sat uneasily in its pit. “You’re gonna be out there alone fighting my fight? I’ll not stand for that. You need help now and I’m the one to do the helping.”
Lingo smiled and shook his head. “Nope, you’re not gonna do one thing ’til I know the time’s right.” He leaned toward her. “An’ I’m tellin’ you right now’s not the time. ’Sides that, Sam’s gonna do all the helpin’ I need for now.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and pushed away from the table.
“Wes, I think Gates an’ Mayben’s gonna be gone a few days. We need to take that time to get as many of the fall calf crop branded as time’ll allow. Let’s hit the hay. We got a whole bunch o’ work to do tomorrow.”
Lingo and Wes helped clean up the kitchen. Emily dried the last dish, and knowing it would do her no good to argue with Lingo about any help she could give, told the men good-night and climbed to the attic.
After getting ready for the night, Kelly pulled her bed alongside of Emily’s. Her voice, little above a whisper, broke into Emily’s thoughts. “Em, you beginnin’ to think ’bout Lingo like maybe he’s your man?”
Emily’s eyes snapped open, widened. “Why, Kelly, what in the world are you talking about? I’ve never given such a thing even one thought.” Kelly chuckled into the dark attic.
“Reckon you kin tell yourself such, but you gotta remember I’m a woman. Seems to me y’all done said a lot to each other without sayin’ one word.” She turned on her side. “ ’Night, Em. If them men gonna brand calves tomorrow, you an’ me’s got a lot o’ work to do.”