He found himself smiling, and again touched his hat.
She glanced shyly away and continued toward the woman at the fire.
At a campfire before the third wagon was Brewster. He looked up. “Well, Mister McCabe. I assumed I would have seen the last of you.”
Jack nodded. “I would have thought so, too. I was just taking a little ride through the hills. I saw the wagons.”
“Yes. If you’ll excuse me, I’m building a cook fire.”
Brewster returned to what he was doing, dropping to one knee, and adding chunks of wood to a fire, much as the first man.
“What’ll you use for wood, once you’re on the trail?” Jack said. “There aren’t a whole lot of trees between here and the foothills of Montana.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Used to be that settlers used buffalo droppings, but now that the buffalo are gone, there’s little to be used.”
A woman was stepping from behind the wagon. She said, “Buffalo droppings! Sounds quite dreadful.”
“Mildred,” Brewster said, “this is Mister McCabe. The man I attempted to hire as our guide.”
Jack gave a touch to the brim of his hat, “Ma’am.”
She gave a nod, curtly.
Following the woman was a boy of about twelve, and a girl closer to the age of the one at the other fire. She wore no bonnet, and long dark hair fell freely, catching the wind.
Jack touched his hat to her, also.
She gave him a smile that struck him as either teasing, or daring. She said, “So, you’re Jack McCabe. The son of the famous gunfighter.”
The woman said, “Hush, Jessica.” Then, to Jack, “Forgive our daughter, Mister McCabe. She’s too brazen, sometimes.”
Jack shrugged. “It takes a lot to offend me, Mrs. Brewster.”
Her husband said, “That wasn’t the impression I gained when we talked earlier.”
“Look, Mister Brewster, I owe you an apology. I really do. It was uncalled of for me to talk to you the way I did. I just, well, I had a lot on my mind. That’s all.”
Brewster looked up at him from the fire. “No harm done, I guess. But at the risk of being rude myself, we have to get on with our evening chores. We want to get an early start in the morning.”
“I wish you all the best,” Jack said. “You know, there aren’t many who travel so far overland by wagon, these days. Used to be there were long wagon trains that made their way overland from Missouri all the way to Oregon or California, but those days are gone.”
“Thanks. But we’ll fare the best we can.”
Jack nodded.
“Mister McCabe,” Brewster’s wife said, “if there are no trees, and as you said, the buffalo are gone, then what is used to start fires?”
He shrugged. “Most of the travel these days is either by train or stagecoach. The Army travels through in convoys, but they often bring firewood with them. Freight wagons make the trip too, and they often bring wood with them. I suppose,” he was thinking quickly, wanting to offer these people some last minute advice, “some twist grass together, into little twists maybe the size of a small piece of firewood. But grass burns quickly and not very hot.”
“Thank you, Mister McCabe,” Brewster said dismissively.
“If you have an extra sheet of canvas, you can sling it under the wagon and use it to carry extra firewood. It’s called a possum belly.”
“We’ll make do,” Brewster said.
The girl, Jessica, threw a smile at Jack. “It was nice meeting you, Mister McCabe.”
“Likewise, Miss.” He touched the brim of his hat, and turned his horse.
He returned the horse to the livery, and then after a steak dinner at Delmonico’s, a restaurant a few doors down from the hotel, he returned to his room.
Still in his levis and boots, he stretched out on the bed, and attempted to sleep. However, he found sleep evasive, as it often had been since he received a letter from Aunt Ginny earlier in the year.
The letter was in his trunk. When he had first read it, he had thought of crumpling it and throwing it out, but then found himself folding it and putting it in his desk. When he was packing his trunk to leave, he again thought of throwing the letter into a waste paper basket by his desk, but instead it wound up in the trunk.
He now sat up and struck a match, and brought to life a lamp standing on a small table at the side of the bed. He then dug into his trunk and found the letter.
This was it. The letter that changed his life.
He thought of maybe unfolding it. Reading it again. He had read it maybe thirty times in the past few months. But instead, he tossed the letter back to the open trunk. He blew out the lamp and started for the door.
When he was troubled, he liked to move. To walk. Better still, to ride. But to ride through the barren countryside around town at night might be foolhardy. A horse could step into a gopher hole and break a leg. So he thought he would settle for walking.
He stepped out onto the boardwalk and began to stride along. The town was dark except for some lighted windows. At the Harvard campus, and the city of Boston where Jack and Darby sometimes went for drinks, the streets were lighted with gas lamps. But not here in a small cowtown like Cheyenne.
After a time, Jack found his wanderings had taken him toward the train station, and he saw the doorway to the Train Whistle was lighted, and he thought maybe he would cut his walk short. The whiskey here was a far cry from Kentucky whiskey, but it would suffice.
He leaned one elbow on the bar, taking the glass with his left hand keeping the right free. Something his father had taught him years earlier. Keep your gunhand free. At Harvard, such a thing wasn’t necessary, but here in this frontier town, as he stood in his levis and riding boots, with his sombrero perched atop his head and his gun once again at his side, he found his father’s old lessons returning to him.
The swinging doors were suddenly pushed open, and Jack tossed a glance back. To his surprise, stepping through the doorway were Brewster and the dark bearded man from the wagons.
“Mister McCabe,” Brewster said. “Thank God.”
Jack was about to make a comment about the two of them being out rather late, considering they were hoping to make an early start the following morning. But he thought better of it when he saw the urgency written on Brewster’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
“It’s my daughter. Jessica. She’s gone.”
4
“Gone?” Jack said.
“I mean,” Brewster said, trying to remain calm enough to get the words out, but obviously agitated, “she’s not at the wagon. We said good-night to her, and she went into the tent. But a half hour ago, when we checked on her, she wasn’t there.”
“Could she have decided to take a walk, or something?”
The bearded man shook his head. He stood maybe four inches taller than Jack, and had a deep baritone voice and spoke in a tight-lipped way that made it seem like he was almost sneering. “There have been men from town milling about our camp. Uninvited. They’ve been trying to get the attention of our daughters.”
Jack said, “I saw you earlier, when I was at the camp. Didn’t have a chance to introduce myself.”
“Carter Harding,” the man said. He extended his hand but there was no smile.
Jack shook the hand. The man’s grip was strong, his hand calloused.
“Did your daughters talk with these men?” Jack asked.
“Mine did not. You might have seen her when you were at the camp today. Nina. She’s about the same age as Jessica Brewster.”
You don’t fail to notice two girls as fine looking as they both were, Jack thought, but such a thing shouldn’t be voiced to their fathers.
Brewster said, “I’m afraid our Jessica has an adventurous streak in her. And it can only lead to trouble.”
Jack said, “Tell me about these men.”
“Three of them,” Harding said. “They wear their guns like you do.”
A polite way of saying they looked like gunfighters, Jack thought. He took no offense. His father had taught him how to shoot a gun and how to wear one, and he knew what his father was.
“This is a hard town,” Jack said, “with hard men.”
Harding said, “It’s also the only town around, and if you want to buy supplies, there’s no other choice.”
Harding had said nothing wrong, but there was something in the tone of his voice that sounded to Jack like the man was forcing himself to be polite. And Jack was not really in the mood for politeness himself, so he decided to dispense with it.
“You don’t like me much, do you, Harding?”
“I saw the way you were looking at my daughter this afternoon. And I see the way you wear your gun. In my eyes, you’re no better than those men we’re talking about. But it was Brewster, here, who thought we should find you. I was opposed, but it’s his daughter who is missing.”
“Well, at least we got that out in the open.”
“Please,” Brewster said. “I just want to find my daughter. Do you have any ideas?”
“The marshal,” Jack said. “I’d start there, first.”
Jack wanted to be left alone, so he could have his drink while the contents of his letter from Aunt Ginny replayed themselves over in his mind one more time. But these men needed help, and they obviously felt out of place here in this town.
“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s go find the marshal.”
He stepped out onto the boardwalk, Brewster and Harding behind him.
A woman stood with her back pressed against the saloon wall. Beside her was a man, leaning with one hand against the wall. She wore a dress lower cut than what the farmers walking with Jack might be accustomed to – she obviously worked at the saloon and was drumming up business – and the man wore his gun low, advertising he was no cowhand.
On the boardwalk across the wide street, another man stood. Jack couldn’t see him clearly in the darkness, but he saw a wide hat, and this man also had a revolver riding low at his right side. In the darkness, the end of a cigar glowed a bright orange, then faded.
“This town is quiet right now,” Jack said, as they walked along. “But when a herd arrives, with drovers who’ve been working hard and want to play hard, this town can light right up. Two or three herds come in at once, and there’ll be chaos you can’t imagine.”
“You speaking from experience?” Harding asked.
“I’ve seen a railhead or two. But I’m not into drunken debauchery, despite what you might think.”
Jack almost said it would probably surprise Harding to know that he had just completed his second year of medical school at Harvard, despite his young age, but decided to let it go. Impressing Harding was at the bottom of his list of things to do. He wanted to simply find Brewster’s daughter, and then maybe he could be left alone to wallow in his own troubles.
He rapped on the door of the marshal’s office, hoping the marshal, or at least a deputy, would be on duty.
After a moment, a pale glow filled a window as a kerosene lamp came to life, and a latch slid aside and the door was opened.
It was Kincaid himself, squinting as people do when just awakened.
“McCabe,” he said.
“Sorry to bother you, Marshal, but these men need your help.”
“Come on in.”
Jack stepped aside to allow Harding and Brewster access to the doorway.
Jack said, “You won’t need me any further. Marshal Kincaid will help you find Jessica.”
And with that, Jack returned to the saloon.
The barkeep said, “I was thinking of closing down. There’s a herd coming up from Texas, and it’s expected sometime next week. We’ll be open almost twenty-four hours a day while the drovers are here.”
“Go ahead and close,” Jack said. “Let me have the bottle.”
The bottle was half empty, so the barkeep said, “Just go ahead and take it. Considering the money we’ll make next week, we won’t miss half a bottle of whiskey.”
Jack stepped out onto the boardwalk, the bottle in his left hand so he could keep his gunhand free.
He shook his head, and found himself chuckling at himself. He was twenty years old and already a college graduate who had completed his second year of medical school. He had a family who loved him, and a promising career ahead of him as a surgeon in one of the finest hospitals in New York. And yet, here he was, standing on a boardwalk in a railhead with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, feeling sorry for himself.
He had been raised on his father’s ranch in Montana Territory. He and his brother Josh had been taught to ride almost as soon as they could walk. By age ten, Jack was riding into the mountains with his father and Josh. He learned to track an animal, to find water when none seemed readily available. By age thirteen, he was learning how to shoot a pistol.
However, Aunt Ginny had thought it important not to neglect what she called the more civilized education. The three R’s. No school was available, so she taught Jack, Josh and their sister Bree herself.
It became apparent early on, however, that Jack’s mind was sharper than most. He could think quickly, and had the ability to remember almost everything he read. By age six he had a reading level better than most adults. And he handled mathematical concepts with ease.
By the time Jack was nine, Aunt Ginny felt she had no more to teach him, and that for him to reach his full potential, he needed to be sent back east for formal schooling.
Pa agreed, and even though Jack wanted nothing more in the world than to be like his father, he wanted even more for his father to be proud of him.
So, at age fifteen, Jack was sent east to boarding school. Philadelphia.
He was near enough to his grandmother and his Uncle Nathan, who still lived in the farming community in the western Pennsylvania hills where Pa had been raised, that he could visit during school breaks. And he often returned to the ranch for summers.
He graduated from high school after only one year at boarding school, and then entered Harvard, majoring in biology. Aunt Ginny had seemed to think either medicine or law would be the best way for Jack to reach what she felt was his full potential. Since studying law meant countless hours studying old, dusty law books, Jack decided to pursue medicine.
He quickly became a rising star in the college world, not only because of his age, but his grade-point-average. He had started college at age sixteen and flew through the courses with ease, and had completed his second year of medical school at an age when most were in their third year of college, and was at the top of his class.
And yet he wanted none of it. All he really wanted was to ride alongside his father and Josh. To work alongside them on the ranch. To stand with them against blizzards and droughts. He wanted to go into the mountains to catch wild horses and then break them using the method Pa had learned from the Shoshones. He should have been with Pa and Josh last year when the ranch was attacked by raiders.
He never quite knew how to tell Pa or Aunt Ginny any of this. They were so proud of him and what he was accomplishing at school. Aunt Ginny was generously paying for it all. And yet, he didn’t really want to be a doctor. He wanted to raise cattle. He wanted branding season and roundups. He wanted to build a home for himself the way his father had.
And he wanted to find the right girl who could stand beside him and raise children with him. When the day was done, he wanted to stand by a roaring hearth made of stones he had placed himself, with his wife beside him and his children asleep in their beds.
Instead, he was looking at life in a major city, in a major hospital. Performing work he really felt no calling for.
He once voiced this to Darby, who said, “You’re insane, Jack. To even think of preferring life on a rough frontier to the future waiting for you. Why, any one of us would jump at the chance to be you.”
And so, Jack began to keep his feelings to himself.
He studied hard, occasionally got drunk
with Darby, and tried to focus on his future as a surgeon and not the life he wanted.
And then, he got a letter from Aunt Ginny. The letter in the trunk in his hotel room.
“Dear Jackson,” it had begun, in her flowing hand. She always called him Jackson. His sister, called Bree by everyone else, was Sabrina to Aunt Ginny.
“Dear Jackson, I have the most wonderful and incredible news to relate to you, so let me begun without preamble.”
Without preamble. She not only wrote like that, she actually used words like that when she spoke.
Jack remembered the first time he read the letter. Aunt Ginny, without preamble, went into a multi-page dissertation on an event that affected the entire family. Reshaping it. She seemed oblivious to the effect it would have on Jack, but then she had no idea what he really wanted in life. But he found he could no longer simply focus on medical school and the future everyone seemed to want for him.
And now, here he stood, on a boardwalk in Wyoming, a bottle of whiskey in one hand. He decided to go back to his room. It was getting a little chilly out here.
He ambled his way across the wide, muddy street. He inserted a key into the lock in his door, and then struck a match to light the lamp on the stand by the bed.
He dropped into the bed, not bothering to remove his boots. He took a swig from the bottle, and decided maybe he had had enough whiskey.
Not that he wasn’t in the mood for more, but this stuff was too far removed from the Kentucky corn whiskey he liked so much, it could barely even suffice as a substitute. Darby was the scotch man. Jack stood the bottle by the lamp.
He reclined back on the bed, when there was a knock at the door.
“McCabe?” A man called from the other side of the door. “It’s Marshal Kincaid.”
With a sigh, Jack got to his feet and opened the door.
“McCabe, I need your help. That girl, Brewster’s daughter, may have gone and gotten herself into some real trouble.”
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 3