by Jack Ballas
He lowered his eyes to the table, then again pinned her with a look. “Emily, he might not know you.” Then he hastened to add, “But I done seed things like this afore, done seed little things bring it all back into a man’s head. I figure that’s what’s gonna happen here. Figger it might take a little while.” He gave a jerky nod. “But by damn, I figger your pa’s gonna be good as new soon’s we kin give ’im good care.” Then despite the seriousness of the subject, he chuckled.
“Gotta tell you, little one, he’s already gittin’ good care. They’s a woman what’s been takin’ care o’ him like he’s a little chick an’ she’s its mother hen. She’s back yonder a ways with ’im.”
“If she’s giving him such good care, why are you bringing them here? Is there still danger for them back there in Silverton?”
Sam stared at her a few moments, wondering how she could appear so calm, wondering whether she loved her father as much as he thought she would, then remembered that Lingo had told him she seemed capable of facing any situation, meeting problems head-on. He knew her stomach must be churning with anxiety, but she put on this icy facade.
“Ma’am, the man what almost done your pa in is back yonder. If he knew where your pa wuz, I figger he’d kill ’im. He’d have to keep ’im from tellin’ what he done to him, an’ even worse in this here country, he’d have to shut ’is mouth about hirin’ them men to take you off’n that there stage, do with you what they wanted, then kill you. Ain’t nobody in this country would stand still fer treatin’ a woman like such.”
Emily sucked in another breath; it caught in her throat. Then she asked the question Sam knew she’d wanted to ask all along, now that she knew she’d see her father in the next few hours. “Where’s Lingo? Did he stay back there to fight those men alone? Isn’t there any law down there who’ll help him?”
“Em, gonna try to answer each one o’ your questions. First off, don’t reckon I know ’zackly where Lingo is, but, yes’m, he done taken on fightin’ them men alone, an’ yes’m, they got law down yonder, but the sheriff’s got more territory than ten men could take care of. The marshal down at Durango ain’t got no authority out in the county.” He nodded. “So yeah, Lingo’s gonna take ’em on alone.”
Slagle drank the rest of his coffee. Kelly stood, poured him another cup, and again sat.
Wes grinned. “Sounds like just the kind o’ fight Lingo likes. He don’t want nobody messin’ round ’im when he’s got that kind o’ business to take care of.”
Emily felt a rush of heat push to her face, tried to push her anger back down inside her, but couldn’t hold it back. She stood, went to the gun rack, and pulled a Winchester .44 from its pegs. She spun toward them. The three stared at her.
“What you figger to do, Em?” Wes stood and walked to her. “Little one, I know how you feel ’bout Lingo even if you ain’t let on to us ’bout it, but you got your pa to think of right now.”
“Sam just told us Papa’s bein’ taken care of, an-and there’s three of you to help. Lingo has no one to help him. I’m going down there to see if he needs help.”
Wes wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the rifle and gently pulled it from her grasp. “Em, if I thought Lingo needed help takin’ care o’ himself, don’t you think I’d be the first to go help ’im?”
She clamped hands to hips, watched him place the Winchester back on its pegs, then, not being able to hold back, and knowing her blue eyes were like a hot flame, she swept the room with a disgusted look. “I’ve heard you and Kelly practically yell the praises of that man, but even if he’s as great as you both say, he’s only one man. He-he needs help.”
“No, he don’t.” Sam’s voice sliced across the room. “I seen ’im clean ’is guns, then slide that big Colt back in its holster, then draw it faster’n my eye could follow.” He shook his head. “No, ma’am, that man don’t need no help to fight nobody.” He shrugged. “ ’Sides that, you git in his way, both o’ you might git killed.”
Em’s shoulders slumped and tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped angrily at them with the back of her hand, swearing inwardly that they were tears of anger—but she couldn’t lie to herself. Her man was in danger, and father, friends . . . nobody was as important to her as the big man she hungered to see.
Wes held his arms out for her. She went into them, sobbing. He patted her back. “There, there, little one. We love ’im, too. If I wuz worried one bit ’bout ’im, I’d already be on my way to help.”
“Oh, Wes, can’t any man be as invincible as you all believe him to be.” She choked back a sob. “Re-re-member, I’ve seen him take on several men at once, b-b-but it was night, an’ he had surprise on his side then.”
“Em, they’s somethin’ you don’t know ’bout Lingo.” He stood back from her, and using his bandana, dabbed at her tears. “Honey, Lingo don’t do nothin’ without he first takes a long look at what he’s got ’imself into, then he comes up with a plan. He figgers ’zackly how he’s gonna take care o’ things.” He shook his head. “Know it ain’t gonna do no good to tell you not to worry—but don’t. Ain’t nothin’ bad gonna happen to ’im.”
He cocked his head, then looked at Sam. “Sounds like your friends done got here.”
Sam twisted his mouth to the side in chagrin. “Yeah, one bein’ an Easterner, an’ the other a woman, they don’t know to give a yell ’fore ridin’ in.”
Wes went to the door. “Hitch your hosses an’ come on in. We been expectin’ you. Sam’s in here.”
Lingo met Cantrell in the cafe after a good, warm night’s sleep. They ate enough that a city man would have wondered that any six men could eat that much. Each had a half-dozen eggs, venison steak, country-fried potatoes, biscuits and gravy, and enough coffee to float a battleship, then topped it off with a half of an apple pie each. When finally Lingo pushed his plate away from in front of him and tamped tobacco into his pipe, Quint grinned. “Don’t look like you in no hurry to git on the trail.”
Lingo returned his grin and shook his head. “Ain’t. I figure there’s only one trail outta here, an’ one direction Bartow’s gonna go.” He put a lucifer to his pipe and puffed contentedly. “Reckon we’ll let ’im get as cold as a man can get, then he’ll stew on the situation he’s gotten himself into, then he’s gonna begin to wonder if he can make it over the pass. When that happens, I figure we gonna be gettin’ pretty close to ’im.”
Cantrell packed and lit his pipe, then sat back. “Lingo, I b’lieve you got a little bit o’ the devil in you. You gonna make it as hard on that bastard as you can ’fore we end his days on this here Earth.”
Lingo nodded. “Finish your pipe; then we’ll get on his trail.”
15
LINGO AND CANTRELL rode side by side to where the trail tilted upward for the long climb; there, Quint slowed his horse to fall behind. Riding abreast here would not be dangerous, but where the trail narrowed, and where the thaw hadn’t set in would be; one or both of them could slip and go over the edge.
Barnes looked over his shoulder. “Looks like five or six folks’re ahead of us.”
“Don’t make no difference, Lingo, them folks prob’ly got a claim somewhere up the mountain.” He chuckled. “One o’ them though ain’t got a claim on nothin’ but six foot o’ hard frozen ground—six-foot deep an’ six-foot long.”
Lingo frowned. Cantrell wasn’t usually gun-happy, but maybe things had been so boring at the BIM that he was ready for any kind of excitement. “Quint, I’ve already told you I want that slick willy alive. I wantta see ’im hang.”
Cantrell laughed, shook his head, and said, “Don’t worry, old friend, I ain’t gonna do nothin’ less’n things start to happen behind you.”
The trail, now a steady climb, showed a set of single tracks leading off to their right. To the left was straight down, a thousand or so feet. Another mile or so and tracks from two horses split off up the mountain. This happened one more time, and then they had only one set to follow.
Th
e trail widened a few feet. Quint eased his horse alongside of Lingo’s. “Them others what left the trail prob’ly had a nice cabin not too far ahead of ’em.” He tilted his head to nod at the remaining tracks. “That there rider ain’t got nowhere to go ’cept to deeper an’ deeper snow. He oughtta be gettin’ the idea right ’bout now that he’s done bit off more’n he can chew.”
Lingo gave a jerky nod. “Reckon so. Hope so.”
Quint squinted through the bright sunlight reflected off the snow. “Lingo, never seen you hate a man before, but I got the idea you really hate this’n. Why?”
Before answering, Barnes pulled his pipe from under about four layers of clothing, tamped tobacco into its bowl, and lit it. Cantrell had done the same. After taking a long drag, Lingo blew the smoke out and studied his friend. “Tell you for a fact, Quint. ’Sides robbin’, or tryin’ to rob that stage, I figure he’s the one who had Emily Lou taken. Know Bull Mayben an’ Shorty Gates was mighty close with ’im.” He grinned and shook his head. “Hell I mighta told you all this before, but I’m sayin’ it again: I could excuse ’im for robbin’ the stage easier’n I can of puttin’ that girl in danger.”
Quint held him with a long look, then said, “Lingo, I b’lieve you jest ’bout ready to git into double harness. You ever tell that young woman how you feel?”
Barnes dropped his gaze from his friend’s all-knowing one. He shook his head. “Not in words, but sorta showed ’er by holdin’ her hand.” He took a huge drag and blew the smoke out. “Reckon it never seemed the right time to say the words straight out.”
Cantrell shook his head, as though wondering how a man could be so dumb. “Dammit, Barnes, the right time’s when you feel it. You gotta git them words said. A woman needs to hear ’em said to ’er straight out.”
Lingo didn’t try to hold in the laugh that pushed past his lips. “Cantrell, Elena told me she dang near had to drag those words outta you, said she and her mother, Venetia, ganged up on you. Hell, Quint, you’re not gonna make yourself out to be such a woman’s man to me.”
“Lingo, I ain’t sayin’ I knowed all them things ’fore Elena an’ me got hitched, but I done learned a whole bunch o’ things ’bout women since I got married.” He reined his horse back onto the trail, then looked across his shoulder. “Do like I done told you—tell ’er what you ought’ve done told ’er.”
Barnes took a couple more drags on his pipe, then knocked the dottle out against the palm of his hand. Cantrell did the same.
Lingo, from his long friendship with Cantrell, knew that the big gunfighter would usually have taken the leadership role, but this was his show, Quint knew it, so now Cantrell looked to him to make the decisions. Barnes appreciated it.
Quint cut into his thoughts. “How you figger to play this hand?”
Lingo slanted him a grin. “Know you’re not gonna like the idea, but I figure to let him suffer a couple o’ nights alongside this mountain ’fore we take ’im.” He grinned. “ ’Course that means we’re gonna have to stay up here, too; but we got the clothes for it. Don’t think he has.”
Quint groaned—an exaggerated one to Lingo’s thinking. “Damn! Knowed you wuz gonna say that. We gonna be so froze up we ain’t gonna be able to handle our guns.”
Barnes pulled his mouth down at the corners. “You’re not foolin’ me an ounce. If I hadn’t said it, you would have. I never knew you to let a man off easy. Easy like takin’ ’im when you could make ’im suffer more by waitin’.”
Cantrell nodded, then pushed the words through a grin, said, “You know me too good.” He shook his head. “You’re right. We gotta make ’im hurt awhile—even after lettin’ ’im know we’re on his trail.”
Now, Lingo smiled, but it showed no humor. “You got it figured right that time.”
The mountain cast long shadows across the trail and on into the empty space over the edge of the road. Barnes glanced up the side of the steep slope. Treeline showed a couple of thousand feet above, but the way the trail wound around, it would take several hours of riding to reach the barren rocks. “We better make camp soon’s we find a place where our fire won’t show from above.”
Quint nodded. “Thinkin’ the same thing.” He stepped from his saddle, stooped, and studied the deep tracks in the snow. There was now no sign of the thaw that took place back down the trail. “Way I got it figured, he ain’t much more’n a quarter of a mile ahead of us. Hope he’s got ’nuff sense not to try to ride this mountainside in the dark. He does an’ he ain’t gonna have to worry ’bout gittin’ his neck stretched.”
They had not ridden more than another hundred yards when Lingo reined into a tumble of boulders. “Think this’ll be as good as we’re gonna find.” He swung his leg across his horse’s rump. “Dig some o’ those provisions outta the pack saddle. I’ll rustle up some firewood.”
“Better make it a whole bunch o’ firewood. Don’t cotton to lyin’ on this cold ground an’ freezin’.”
“Kind o’ figured it that way.” As soon as Lingo said the words he bent over a windfall and dragged a dead sapling from its pile. Cantrell dug through the pack saddle’s contents, took hold of the coffeepot and a package of coffee and put them on the ground at his side. “Now to find them bottles we brung along, and we’ll be ’bout as comfortable as we’d be back at the ranch. Tomorrow we’ll see where our friend is an’ how he spent the night.”
Lingo shook his head. “Nope. Soon’s we eat I’m gonna slip up on his camp an’ see how he’s makin’ out.”
“Want me to do it?”
Barnes shook his head. “Reckon I’m ’bout as good an Indian as you, Cantrell. It’s my job to do.”
“You figger to warm this here rock we gonna sleep on? If you don’t, I do.”
“Gonna let you do it while I sneak up on that varmint.”
Quint only nodded.
Maddie and Colter went up to the porch, hesitated, and Wes waved them on into the cabin. As soon as they were in and the door shut behind them, Sam introduced them.
Emily stared at her father. He looked much older than when he had left home. She wanted to rush into his arms, but after what Sam had said about his memory, she held back, then stepped toward him. “Papa, Sam told us some of what you’ve been through and how it’s affected you.” She tentatively held her arms toward him. “Papa, I’m Emily Lou, your daughter. I won’t rush things. We’ll let what will happen, happen.”
She choked back a catch in her throat. “But, Papa, I’ve waited so long for a hug. Come here and hug me.”
Colter took a shy, hesitant step toward her, then held his arms out. She came into them, and even though he might not remember her, she thought there must be something deep inside of him that responded to her. He hugged her, patted her back, and when she kissed his cheek, tears welled into his eyes and rolled down his face. She stood back, picked up a flour sack, now used as a dish towel, and blotted his tears away. “Know you both must be cold; here, sit down while I get us some coffee.” Kelly beat her to it; she was already pouring.
As soon as they were all seated, Em studied Maddie—young, but with the ravages of the life she’d led showing a little hardness on her pretty face. Em, surprised that the woman was little if any older than she herself was, revised her first inclination to think maybe she and her father might have a romantic interest. She’d gotten that idea when Sam said what he did about the care she was giving her father. He’d not said where Maddie fit into the picture. Emily shrugged mentally. She’d get the whole story when they had time to tell it.
While they talked, there was much said about a man named Bartow and his responsibility for what had happened to her father. She wanted to ask if her brother, Rush, had ever showed up, but held back, remembering that nothing of the past remained in her father’s mind.
Finally, after visiting more than an hour, Kelly stood. “Goodness gracious, know you folks must be starved. I’ll fix supper while y’all visit some more.”
Emily pushed back from the table as
did Maddie. “Maddie, you sit and entertain Wes and Sam. Kelly and I’ll get supper ready.” She smiled. “Besides, there’s not room for three women to be brushing by each other, all trying to do the same thing.”
Maddie pulled up short, a frown creased her forehead, a look of rejection took the glow of newfound friends from her face, then she brightened. “You won’t let me hep y’all in here, reckon I could go chop some more wood.”
Wes stood, walked to her side, put his arm around her shoulders, and smiled at her. “Maddie, tell you what, you let us treat you like company tonight, then tomorrow you women can figger out what chores each one o’ you gonna do.” His smile widened to a grin. “ ’Sides that, me an’ Sam’s gonna be fightin’ ’bout who’s gonna do the wood choppin’. But for now, I reckon I got enough firewood split to last the winter.”
When supper was ready, they ate, then Maddie insisted on doing the dishes. When they were all at the table again, with coffee in front of them, Wes poured a belt of whisky in their cups. Even the women nodded when he held the bottle over their coffee to pour them a drink.
During two or three spiked coffees, Maddie told them her part in Bartow’s treatment of Miles, and how ashamed of it she was. Then she got a hard, stubborn look around her eyes and mouth. She gave them a fast nod. “Gonna tell you right now, I done a lot o’ things in my life I ain’t right proud of, but goin’ along with that man’s treatment o’ Mr. Colter tops the list.
“Now want you to know, I ain’t makin’ no excuses, ain’t no excuse good ’nuff fer what I hepped do to that fine old man asettin’ there, but what I’m sayin’ right here ’fore all o’ you, is that I wuz jest tryin’ to stay alive. Lord knows why I wanted to, but I did. Seems like the onliest things I thought ’bout wuz eatin’, sleepin’, an’ doin’ what I wuz told.”
She glanced around the table. Each of them sat there, their drinks forgotten, all staring at her. But not one of them had a look of blame.