by Cotton Smith
“I be likin’ a lady who be takin’ the care o’ herself.”
Bea’s smile was a mixture of pleasure and the sickening realization she had killed a man. “Ich did nein haff choice.”
“No, you didn’t.” Kileen put his hand on her shoulder, as gently as he ever did anything. “Why don’t ye an’ the sweet lass be checkin’ on Ranger Carlow’s fine black hoss. Be needin’ a wee bite o’ grain—or just a nice pat or two.”
He turned toward Hattie, whose face was drained of color. “After, if ye be willin’, I’ll tell ye about the faeries an’ where they be livin’. ’Tis a fine bunch they be. All happy an’ singin’ an’ dancin’.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly to support the idea of dancing. “They be livin’, ye know, down under a pond. Or inside a hill. Aye, that’s where they be. I’ve seen them meself, I have.” He cocked his head, hoping for a response, but none came.
Only a strange look from Bea.
Undeterred, he continued, “Ye know, lass, they can make a wee hoss from a bit of straw. Aye, they can. An’ ride upon the land like kings and queens.” He swallowed and kept trying. “An’ ’tis milk and honey they love. Why, they even sip the sweet right from the flowers.” He smiled his best closed-mouth smile and ignored the stare from Bea.
Hattie nodded, but her lower lip trembled and gave way to a wail. Bea knelt beside her and held the little girl close. “Mein little love, it ist all over now. Nein can hurt you,” Bea said, stroking Hattie’s hair and trying not to cry herself.
Kileen stood watching, unsure of what to say or do.
Bea looked up at him, her eyes reassuring. “Vielen dank, mein freund. Hattie vould to hear such . . . fun stories. A little later, ah, perhaps.” Her smile was faint but she was trying. “An’ if yah vould like to be telling me of New York . . . if it vould get something off your great chest, Aaron . . . Lucent . . . Ich vould be listening. If nein, Ich vill nein ask again. All men haff der secrets, you know.” Her smile had become warm and understanding.
“Aye, later.” Kileen nodded and looked away. “I’ll be takin’ the doctor—an’ his killin’ man—to town now. The jail be the doctor’s home until we be gettin’ him in front o’ a judge. A nice Irish judge ’twould be to my likin’.”
Bea stroked Hattie’s hair. “Vill you to be kommen back hier, Thunder?”
“Aye, that I will,” he said, “if’n ye be wantin’ to see an ol’ prizefighter a wee more. A saint I not be.”
Her smile was an invitation.
“Back in the old days, I be doin’ bad—to get money for my sweet sister, God bless her soul, and her wee lad . . . me nephew, Time.” His concerned gaze studied her face. “I had to change me last name . . . an’ hide. I robbed a bankin’ house. Aye, that I did.” His great shoulders rose and fell, then fire reentered his eyes. “Them that owned it were to be payin’ me for a fight . . . an’ they decided not. After it were done. A constable who be one o’ theirs be tryin’ to arrest me after the robbin’. I be hurtin’ hisself with me fists.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Does nein matter, mein Thunder. You kommen back, yah?”
He beamed, touched his hand to his cheek, and marched into the house, tapping the doorframe three times with his knuckles as he entered.
After watching him disappear, Bea knelt beside Hattie, kissed her on the cheek as well, and whispered in her ear. Hattie’s smile was feeble as her small hand reached out to Bea’s.
From the window, Kileen watched them walk hand in hand toward the corral. Bea was pointing and talking excitedly. Turning away, he glanced at the candlesticks resting on the mantel. The middle candle was out. Just as he suspected. He shivered, knowing the candle’s going out by itself was, indeed, a warning of a death in the house. It had foretold the black man’s demise. He was glad he hadn’t seen the death candle earlier.
He propped the rifle against the wall again, in almost the same place as before. As he picked up his dropped pistol and gunbelt, a part of him wondered if he could have handled the muscular Viceroy in a fistfight. His memory told him the black man had won in thirty rounds when they met. Kileen had fought with a broken right arm for ten of them. He blinked away the rest of New York when he had become a wanted man. The banking house wasn’t the only place he had robbed. Or the policeman the only crooked lawman he had beaten. Or worse. He would not let the rest of that awful time reenter his mind, or the horrible things he had been forced to do.
Holstering the gun, he buckled the gunbelt into place and walked over to the dead Viceroy. A scarlet pool under his head and chest matched his sash. Bloodstains were not easy to remove, he noted to himself.
“Selar, ye should’ve stayed in New York. A fine champion ye could have been. Look at ye now.”
He shifted the dead man’s weight on his shoulder, holding the body in place with his left hand, and he walked back to the door and picked up the Winchester with his right. Tapping the doorway three times with his rifle, he proclaimed, “Here’s to ye, Herman Von Pearce, for teachin’ your fine lady to shoot.” As he headed for the buggy, he muttered, “Aaron Lucent is dead. God bless his black-hearted soul. Ranger Thunder Kileen is alive.”
He laid Viceroy in the buggy, struggling with the dead man’s weight. Lines of blood decorated the side of the vehicle. Next came the unconscious Dr. Holden. Kileen plopped his smaller frame on top of the black gunfighter, then pulled the reins from the rack.
A few seconds later, the loaded buggy eased toward the front gate. From the corral, Bea watched and waved. Hattie looked up from feeding Shadow. Kileen’s big hand reached out of the buggy and returned Bea’s greeting. He didn’t see her fingers go to her mouth and stay there.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Will Nichols saw the Comanche wrangler first. Charlie Two-Wolves was little more than a suggestion among a line of trees.
“There, Ty. Charlie’s down there.” Nichols held the reins in place against the saddle horn with his left forearm and waved his good hand.
Carlow wished he would have waited until the young Ranger verified who it was, but the responding wave assured him Nichols was right. They kicked their horses into a gallop and headed toward Two-Wolves, spraying wet grass and mud as they rode. Chance was between them, his tail wagging fiercely as some of the earthen bursts splattered on his body.
“Ich find der herd. We get der herd, amigos.” Two-Wolves’s first remarks were brief and to the point, even if they were a mixture of languages, as usual. He completed his statement with a long Comanche phrase about his spirit helpers returning to help him find the Cradle 6 cattle. Nichols looked at Carlow, who nodded his understanding.
Two-Wolves’s hat was gone and his old necktie had been tied around his head like a headband, letting long black hair stream down around his neck. Kileen had described him well. A necklace of wolf teeth set off a broad chest, naked except for the thin strap holding a quiver of arrows and a bow. A breechcloth was his only clothing. A pouch similar to the one he had left for Carlow hung from the waist-bound leather thong holding up his breechcloth. A sheathed knife was held there as well.
His feet were bare, and his legs were soaking wet to his knees. The young Ranger thought the man’s scarring on his left cheek was darker than he remembered. And thicker. Across the bridge of the wrangler’s nose and both cheeks were two parallel lines of red paint. At the ends of both lines were series of dots, representing a wolf’s paw, Carlow decided. The thick scars had turned the lines and dots into a maze of jagged marks on that side of his face. For the first time, the young Ranger noticed a small white circle of paint surrounding a scar on his chest. Probably a “remembered fight” from his warrior days, Carlow guessed to himself.
Two-Wolves studied Nichols for a moment; his hard eyes strayed to the missing hand, then back to the young cowboy’s face. “Will Nick-holds. You warrior. Mucho tekwuniwapi.”
Carlow thought tekwuniwapi meant being brave and told Nichols of the compliment. There was something about Two-Wolves that seemed
different to Carlow, and it wasn’t his appearance. Not entirely. The Comanche wrangler was much more than an Indian who was good with horses. He was a leader. A war leader. It radiated from him. Carlow would ask Two-Wolves more about himself when they had time. If they did.
Smiling, Nichols extended his right hand. “It is good to see you, Charlie.”
The Comanche grasped it awkwardly but understood the gesture. Two-Wolves’s eyes blinked away a memory. He turned toward Carlow and brought his right fist to his heart in tribute. “I know you kommen. See Star Warrior in mucho dream. Ja. You haff wolf medicine from big Star Warrior . . . ara . . . uncle?” He repeated “wolf medicine” in Comanche and made sign for it with great reverence and added a phrase in Spanish that Carlow thought meant “victory or death.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.” Carlow patted his saddlebags.
Two-Wolves nodded and explained, mostly in Comanche, that the wolf medicine was secured during a full moon, and that the wolf would forever be Carlow’s spirit helper if he would let it be so. Proudly the Comanche explained his own spirit helpers, a pair of prairie wolves, had returned to him during the night as he trailed the herd. He said Carlow’s wolf-dog was, indeed, a present from the spririts. That statement reminded Carlow of Kileen’s observation that the animal was the spirit of Carlow’s late best friend, Shannon Dornan, mainly because the young Ranger had found the wolf-dog shortly after leaving Dornan’s grave.
Carlow grimaced slightly, not wanting his thoughts to go there, and asked, “How far is the herd?” He supported his question with sign, not knowing the right words in Comanche.
In a string of English, German, Spanish, and Comanche words and phrases, Two-Wolves explained the herd had been taken onto a pasture that nestled behind a long ridge; it was Bar H land but used to belong to the River S. The land was flat and grassy, with a stream along the southern edge. It wasn’t far, just beyond the second rise. Six riders were watching the herd; Red Anklon and Del Gato were there. So was Jessie Holden, dressed as a man. But not Dr. Holden himself. The Comanche wrangler had gotten close enough to notice Anklon’s face was bruised and swollen.
Nichols told him about the fight in town, and Two-Wolves nodded as if he expected Carlow to be victorious against the bigger man. Then Nichols asked about the two dead riders and if they could bury them first. Carlow looked away; it was what Kileen said would happen.
Before the young Ranger could respond, Two-Wolves told them that he had moved the bodies to a shallow cave cut into a hillside not far from where they died. He had closed off the entrance with rocks so they wouldn’t be bothered by animals until they could be buried. His explanation indicated he understood the white man’s way of placing the dead back into Mother Earth for eternity. He finished by saying he had told his own spirit helpers, the wolves, to tell their brothers to leave the brave men alone.
Tears welled in Nichols’s eyes as he thanked him. Carlow quickly asked if a black man was with the rustlers and described him as wearing a red sash and gold earring. Two-Wolves appeared puzzled and asked in sign for Carlow to repeat his description. Upon hearing it again, he shook his head negatively.
At Carlow’s urging, the Comanche wrangler agreed they could get to the cattle without being seen. As Two-Wolves had done earlier, they could sneak close by using the streambed that meandered around the hillside and cut along where the herd was grazing.
“So that’s how you got so wet,” Carlow said, pointing at Two-Wolves’s legs.
“Si, that ist so. Get mucho close. No one see Two-Wolves. Spirits make no see.”
“You got any more of that invisible stuff?” Nichols asked with a grin.
Two-Wolves shrugged his shoulders, not understanding.
In his best Comanche, Carlow said, “Your spirit helpers have done well. I hope they help me, too.” He supported his words with sign language.
Two-Wolves smiled, and the cheek scars looked as if they were sliding forward toward the corner of his mouth. “Wolf medicine keep bullet away. Nein kill a wolf with gun, only bow and arrow. I give to Will Nick-holds.”
He shoved his hand into his pouch and withdrew fingers covered with white dust. He reached over to Nichols’s face and put four dots of white on his cheek.
“Still like the idea of that invisible stuff,” Nichols said. “Either that or a bottle of Kentucky’s best.”
“That only makes you think you’re invisible.” Carlow cocked his head to the side and grinned.
“Oh, I think a lot of people used to see right through me like I wasn’t there.”
“They won’t anymore, Will.”
Nichols drew in his stomach, rubbed his tongue across his front teeth, and looked away.
Carlow noticed a slight tremor in Nichols’s hand. Was it a sign of withdrawal—or fear? Can he be counted on? It was Carlow’s turn to glance away.
Little more than an hour later, their horses were left tied to a lone live oak tree at the base of a widely girthed hill. Two-Wolves said the narrow tree hadn’t paid attention to its elders and lost its way from the rest of the trees. He mused that the tree must be related to the Comanche, then insisted Carlow carry the wolf medicine pouch with him.
With a simple “yes,” the young Ranger pulled the pouch from his saddlebag and pushed it down inside his shirt, letting it rest against his stomach. At the last moment, Carlow also grabbed a set of army binoculars kept in his saddlebags. He ran his hand over his tied long coat. It wasn’t any drier than when they had left the overhang. He shrugged. He had gone this far without it. Besides, the whitish color would make him easier to spot.
Turning away from his horse, he told Chance to remain with the horses, but Two-Wolves objected to the idea.
“Puha natsuwitu. He . . . come.” Two-Wolves’s forehead was laced with frown lines as he pointed at Carlow’s shirt where the pouch was held.
Carlow recognized the Comanche words for “strong medicine” and scratched the wolf-dog between the ears. “I was worried about him barking.”
“He no bark.”
With that, the young Ranger told Chance to come with them. The wolf-dog’s tail indicated pleasure at the notification and a thin grin replaced Two-Wolves’s frown.
After giving Two-Wolves his sack of food, the three gobbled cold sausages and biscuits as they moved toward an elbow in the stream that anchored the south end of the former River S pasture. Chance received his share from both Carlow and Two-Wolves. The Comanche wrangler reminded him that the land had once belonged to friends of the Von Pearces, the ones from across the great waters.
Two-Wolves remained barefoot, while Nichols and Carlow only removed their spurs. Soon the three men were sloshing their way along the cold stream; Nichols carrying his rifle, Two-Wolves holding his bow, and Carlow with his cut-down Winchester. Water was halfway up Carlow’s pants, nearly reaching the top of his Kiowa leggings. The bone handle of his knife bobbed above the waterline as they moved swiftly. Chance bounded through the stream behind him, sometimes swimming. No one could see them unless one of Dr. Holden’s men happened to ride close to the creek; the three men would be easy targets if that happened.
A proud sun beat down on them as they rounded the hillside and headed toward the open prairie, moving within the meandering high-banked creek. Only Two-Wolves seemed at ease. Carlow was breathing through his teeth, as if it would help keep any sound from escaping. Behind him, Nichols’s breath was coming in short nervous bursts, and Carlow worried the noise would be heard if any Holden riders were close. Several times the cowhand gagged, and Carlow’s concern about him increased with each cough.
At Two-Wolves’s silent command, they stopped and raised their heads enough to see over the creek bank. A thick line of cattle was only yards away, but all carried the Bar H brand. Carlow was surprised. Had Two-Wolves been mistaken? At least no riders were close; the nearest was twenty yards from the stream and to their left, staring toward the far treeline.
Several cows raised their heads in surprise and Carlow wo
rried their interest might alert the guards. Instinctively he turned to the waiting wolf-dog and told him not to bark. After a few minutes, the animals returned to grazing. Carlow could see only four men on horseback.
Two-Wolves guessed his concerns. “Suchen. Reindfleisch . . . ah, cows of Doc-tuh Rem-eng-ton Hold-den all ’round cows of Cradle 6.” He made a circular motion. “Ja, seis hombres. Kohtoopy, ah, fire . . . under trees.” He held up six fingers to support his statement. “Beeg hombre with hair of fire there. One you beat. No see devil woman—or muerto ’breed, Del Gato. Mucho coffee. Mucho whiskey, maybe. Ja.”
“Sounds good to me. I could use a swig right about now,” Nichols said. He put the palm of his hand above his eyes and squinted. “There’s five . . . no, six. Yeah, six by the fire, Ty.”
Taking off his hat, Carlow raised his head to study the herd and saw they were right. Cradle 6 cattle had been placed in the center of the grazing Bar H herd to hide their appearance from any casual observation. He held the binoculars to his eyes and studied the far end of the pasture.
Nichols’s eyesight was sharp, as was Two-Wolves’s. There were, indeed, six men standing or sitting around the fire. He knew one man, and only one. Red Anklon. Dressed in his beaded buckskin jacket and hat with its matching beaded hatband, he was easy to identify. Other than his facial bruising and puffiness, he looked no worse for their fight.
Carlow thought it must really grind against the tall man’s ego to have to take orders from the short Dr. Holden, even if he was his brother-in-law. A grin sneaked across his face. He studied the rest of the relaxing men. Where was Del Gato? Surely he was there with Anklon. Somewhere. And where was that Negro gunfighter? The one who looked like a buccaneer. Viceroy, the fat shootist had called him. Three shadowed men were moving around the horse string. Likely one was Del Gato, or perhaps the black man, but he couldn’t make out any of their features.