Josh said, “He used that one you fought. Kiowa Haynes.”
Dusty nodded. He then looked to Jack, “So, what’re you gonna tell everyone back at the house? You told them you were going to check on the farmers today.”
Jack shrugged. “I’ll tell them you two had decided on taking a ride through the hills and doing a little hunting, and that sounded kind of good. Besides, I don’t really want Nina to see me all beaten-up like this.”
Dusty nodded. Josh said with a smile, “You do kind’a look like hell.”
Jack said, “You looked in the mirror lately?”
Dusty said, “He looked like hell before the fight.”
Hunter was laughing. He took a big chug from his mug.
Jack said, “I don’t like lying to the family, but I really don’t want anything to happen to keep Pa from riding out to visit Ma. He’s had a really hard time dealing with all of it over the years. He never really got over the loss.”
“He’s been different this past year,” Josh said. “There’s a sort of ease on him. Like he’s somehow found some sort of peace inside him. Like he came to some sort of understanding about it.”
Pa could become very long winded when talking philosophy, Jack thought, but when it came to talking about himself he was like a closed book. “Well, if that’s the case, then it’s more important than ever that we let him go to California without burdening him with any of this. Besides, we don’t really know if it was indeed White-Eye that Josh saw.”
Hunter said, “Are you sure that’s wise? If it is Vic Falcone out there, with a new gang of outlaws, maybe we need your Pa right here.”
Josh shook his head. “We’re men now, Hunter. And you’re here, and Zack is just down the stretch. And we have an extra gun in Jack, too, until the end of July.”
Dusty glanced at Jack, but said nothing.
Over the next few days, Jack and Pa went hunting in the hills surrounding the valley. Pa brought his Sharps and let Jack use it to bring down an elk. And he and Pa stood on the porch at night a couple of times, watching darkness descend on the valley. Pa talked philosophy, going on about Shoshone beliefs and ways.
“Their village wasn’t far from where those settlers are building their homes.” Pa had his pipe in his left hand. His right was resting on the handle of the new revolver tied down at his right leg. Jack didn’t know if he would ever get used to the sight of Pa swaggering around with only one gun. “We hunted these hills and we roasted elk and venison by an open fire at night.”
“That must have been quite a time for you.”
Pa nodded. “It was one of the best winters of my life. At that time, there were no settlements here in Montana Territory. No Bozeman. No Helena. There wasn’t a white settlement north of the Oregon Trail. Just these mountains. I would stand on a cliff off on that ridge west of the valley, and just stare off at the valley floor and the ridges beyond. All of it was covered with a blanket of white. And I just felt like I was in country undisturbed by the white man. Country that was as God made it. There was such a feeling of peace and calmness and stillness that just sort of settled through me.”
Jack knew the ridge. Pa still rode out there every so often.
Pa said, “I sometimes wonder if I did right by you and Josh and Bree, bringing you all the way up here after your mother died. Maybe I should have left us right where we were. Only a couple days’ ride north of San Francisco. Out here on the remote frontier, life can be hard. Last summer, especially, I started having doubts. That fire fight we had with Falcone and his men - that was a bad one.”
“No, Pa, overall I think you made the right decision. I can’t imagine a better place for the family to call home than right here.”
At the end of the week, it was time. When the eastern sky was just starting to lighten, Johnny dropped a loop on the stallion he called Thunder, his favorite mount. The one he preferred to ride when he was going on an overland trip. He saddled Thunder and left him tethered to the rail at the front porch. He then went in the house for his bedroll and saddlebags and his rifle. He would travel with his Sharps only.
He stepped outside and tucked the rifle into the scabbard, and tied his saddlebags and bedroll in place.
His sombrero was in place, and he wore a waist-length canvas jacket the color of desert sage. Tied down to his right leg was his new Colt Peacemaker.
He looked up as the door opened. Jack stepped out, followed by Josh and Bree and Dusty. They filed down the stairs. Jack was in a white shirt and vest, and Dusty in his buckskin shirt. Josh’s hair, the color of corn silk, was falling to his shoulders. Long, like Pa’s. All three boys were wearing their guns.
“I thought we said our good-byes last night,” Johnny said.
They had sat long by the hearth and talked, and Bree had given him a big hug before she went to bed, and the boys had each given him a handshake. He had words for each of them, telling them each how proud he was of them. Of the man Josh had become. Of the son Dusty was, and how glad he was Dusty was now in the family. Of how proud he was of Jack, off at that school in the east, getting an education that would allow him to make a difference in the world.
“We did,” Bree said. “But we can’t just let you ride away without being here to see you off.”
On the porch was Ginny. She was in her robe, with a cup of tea in one hand and her tiny spectacles perched on her nose. Temperance was beside her.
He said, “Take care of the house.”
She said, “I always do. Take care of yourself.”
“I always do.”
“There’s no chance we could talk you into taking a stage coach like a normal person, is there? Hop the train in Cheyenne.”
He grinned. “Not a chance.”
She returned the grin. “Somehow, I didn’t think so.”
He said to Temperance, “Take care of my boy. Sometimes it’s not an easy job.”
She smiled. “No, it’s not. Ride safe.”
It was time. Johnny gave Bree another big hug. Then it was handshakes for the boys. To Josh he said, “Take care of things while I’m gone.”
Josh said, “I will, Pa.”
“I know you will.” He looked to Dusty. “I know you both will.”
He looked to Jack. “Travel safe. It’s a long way back to Massachussetts.”
Jack had made the journey many times. A journey he didn’t intend to make again. But all he said was, “I will.”
They watched their father swing up and into the back of Thunder. He sat in the saddle for a moment, looking at his family.
Pa does indeed sit tall in the saddle, Jack thought. His wide hat, his wide shoulders, the gun at his side. A man worthy of the legend he was inspiring.
Pa then turned and Thunder started away at a loping trot. Bree reached up to wipe away a tear, and Dusty put an arm over her shoulders.
Dusty said, “He’ll be all right.”
She nodded, but said nothing.
They watched as Pa rode down toward the wooden bridge. In the distance, he became little more than a shapeless moving object in the grayness of pre-dawn. They heard the clopping of Thunder’s iron shoes on the wooden bridge. And then he was away.
34
The man most knew as Carter Harding walked away from the family tent. In one hand was a whiskey bottle he had paid for by dipping into the meager supply of cash they had remaining. He and Emily had sold their farm in Vermont and outfitted themselves for the trip west. To find a spot of land, preferably in Oregon, and start over in some place where maybe he wouldn’t be recognized.
It hadn’t come as a total shock that Abel Brewster had figured out who he was. He had heard people talking. And Emily had. He knew sooner or later he would be exposed, and then it would be off to prison or the gallows. He didn’t want to leave his wife without a husband. Or even worse, his daughter without a father. There had been a mild drought the year before and they had lost some crops and what they could manage to harvest barely covered the debts they owed. As with an
y farming community, they lived on credit all year long and they paid everything up at harvest time. Anything left over was profit. And then they started the whole cycle over again. He and Emily decided to use the drought as an excuse, claimed they lost too much money, then sold out and headed west. Brewster and Ford apparently did lose some money and had to sell their farms to pay their debts, so they joined the Hardings.
Carter hadn’t really wanted them along. It would be easier for his family to lose themselves in some remote corner of the frontier if he didn’t have neighbors from Vermont tagging along. But he could find no effective argument for talking them out of it.
But now it was all going to pieces. The life he had tried to protect his daughter and wife from was catching up with him. His daughter’s heart had been stolen by a gunfighter. And the gunfighter and his family of gunfighters all knew that Carter Harding was really Harlan Carter. Notorious outlaw. Wanted dead or alive in three states.
His last hope was to get his family out of this little section of Montana. Away from the McCabes. Oregon still awaited, and if they left soon they could still get there in time to put up a cabin. One appealing aspect of Oregon was they had reasonably warm winters, much unlike New England, or even this god-forsaken stretch of mountains. And it rained much of the time in the winter, making it ideal for planting alfalfa, so a farmer could get in two crops. A more traditional crop in the summer, and then alfalfa in the winter.
If they had left this valley now, they could be back in Cheyenne hopefully by August. With any luck, they might be in Oregon by the end of September. Put up a cabin and get in an alfalfa crop. But no, here they still were, and the women had no intentions of leaving.
And so he walked. Whiskey in one hand, gun belt buckled about his hips.
When he went east and began using a different name, he had gotten rid of his revolver. He hadn’t worn a gun belt in over ten years. But when Jack McCabe gave him one he had taken from the outlaws who had taken Jessica Brewster, it felt so natural. A little bit of the man he had left behind, the man called Harlan Carter, seemed to come alive inside him again.
He hadn’t tasted whiskey in more than ten years either. But it seemed like the next natural step. He had gone to such drastic lengths to keep his daughter from the life he had left behind, and yet now it was all proving futile. He was in the process of losing her, and possibly even his wife. So, why not allow a little whiskey?
A tree grew near the side of the small lake. About the only tree growing on the valley floor. An oak, tall with green leaves stretching out to the sun. He strode through grass as tall as his knees, walking toward the tree.
He stopped maybe a hundred feet from the tree. He faced it. He reached for the pistol in his holster and gave it a look. An old-style Army .44 revolver. Out of production now, replaced by the newer guns that used metallic cartridges. This one had been refit to take cartridges, but it was still inferior to the newer guns. The balance wasn’t as good. And the bore had too many years of corrosion eating away at it. Black powder was highly corrosive. Enough of that and the rifling would be damaged, further impeding the gun’s accuracy.
He knew a lot about guns. Knowledge he wished he didn’t have, because that knowledge came from his years as Harlan Carter. Years he would like to put behind him, and yet was finding he could not.
He had hid from himself behind a plow. But it seems no matter how hard you might try to hide from yourself, you eventually catch up with yourself.
He slid the gun back into the holster, and took a swig of whiskey. It was his fourth or fifth this morning. He wasn’t really keeping track. But he could feel the whiskey reaching into him, working its magic, making the pain a little less hurtful. And yet it somehow brought out an anger in him.
He reached for his gun. Harlan Carter had been known for a quick draw. And yet, his fingers fumbled with the handle of the gun and he couldn’t quite get a grip on it. Lack of practice. He steadied himself and tried again. This time he got the gun in his hand and brought his arm out to full extension, cocking the gun as he did so. And he fired. And the tree just stood there like nothing had happened.
He had been aiming at a lower branch. He had missed cleanly.
He slid the gun back into the holster and repeated the procedure. Draw, cock and fire. A little bit of wood on the top side of the branch splintered. He had grazed it.
He shook his head with anger at himself. If he had been drawing down on a man, he would now be dead. Even a cowhand with average skill with a gun would have dropped him.
Maybe that would be for the best, he thought, and took another drink of whiskey.
Emily spoke from behind him. “Carter, what on Earth are you doing?”
He turned at the sound of her voice. She was striding through the tall grass toward him, her skirt parting the grass like the bow of a ship cutting through water. Nina was a few feet behind her, doing her best to keep up with her ankle all trussed up in a wooden splint and with a cane in her hand. Age Brewster had cut the cane from the branch of a tree a day earlier.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said.
“Carter, are you drinking? I thought I smelled it on you last night.”
Nina said, “Father, it’s not like you to drink. I’ve never seen you take a drink.”
He said, “You know nothing about me, little girl.”
And he turned and faced the tree again.
“Carter,” Emily said.
He ignored her, and drew down on the tree again. Again he missed. Damn, he thought, I can’t even outdraw a tree.
Nina hobbled around to face him, driving her cane into the ground angrily as she did so. “Father, I want to know what’s going on with you. What do you mean I don’t know anything about you?”
“You don’t even know my name, little girl. Even when you call me ‘Father,’ it’s a lie.”
“Carter,” Emily said again.
He slid the pistol back into its holster and began pacing. And he talked. He was generally a man of few words, but whiskey has a way of loosening the tongue and the words flew out of him. He told her how his name was really Harlan Carter. A farm boy from Michigan who had gotten caught up with some guerrilla raiders during the war. They had operated out of Missouri, burning bridges and farms and shooting down farmers who were Confederate sympathizers.
“And something inside me liked it. I hated to admit it, but it was there. A certain thrill when the night exploded in flames and gunfire and chaos.”
“Father..,” she said quietly.
“After the war, I kept doing what I knew how to do. I couldn’t imagine going back to a life behind a plow. So some of the men and me, we started hitting banks and trains and stage coaches in Nebraska and Missouri and Kansas. And we killed. And we stole. And we burned.”
Tears were in her eyes. “Father..,”
Emily said, “Carter, I think that’s enough.”
But he continued. “But then it happened. You know what happened? I shot me a preacher man. I shot him and killed him. He was a Mexican padre, in Texas. We rode right into his mission. He had gold there. And we took it. And I put a bullet right into his chest and watched him fall to the floor and then stepped right on over him to get the gold cross standing on the altar behind him. And then you know what he did? Layin’ there in a pool of his own blood, he looked me right in the eye. Stopped me dead in his tracks. And you know what he said? He said he forgave me.”
Harlan let out a bitter laugh and ceased his pacing and looked at Nina. “With his dyin’ breath, the sumbitch looked me in the eye and said, ‘I forgive you.’”
He resumed his pacing. “I tried to put that behind me. But it stayed with me. It kept comin’ back to me in my dreams. That padre, layin’ there in that puddle of blood. And he forgave me.
“I got to the point I couldn’t do it anymore. We had us a little hideout. An old sod cabin in Kansas. It had been abandoned by some farmer who must’ve tried to make a go of it but couldn’t. I just left the
men I rode with. They were layin’ around drunk one night. I just saddled up and rode out. Rode east. Ended up in Vermont. Changed my name.”
He had stopped pacing, and Emily walked up to him. “And married me.”
Nina said, “What did you mean about me being wrong when I called you my father?”
Emily said, “He meant nothing.”
Carter looked at his wife. “She should know the truth, Emily.”
Emily sighed and looked at her. “I was married once, to a man named True Gallagher. We weren’t much older than you. We moved to Vermont where land was available and tried to build a farm, but he got pneumonia one winter and was gone. You were barely a year old. Carter had newly arrived and he married me. And he’s been a father to you.”
Nina barely whispered the words. “You’re not my real father?”
Carter said, “I’m not really anything. I’m not a real father. Half the time I’m not a real husband.”
He looked to Emily. “I’ve never been able to really reach out to you the way a husband should. I’ve always been so closed up. In many ways a stranger to you.”
“You’ve carried a lot of pain for a lot of years. I understand that, and so I know not to push. But you’ve always been a good husband.”
He said to Nina, “I’ve always tried to keep you shielded from the kind of life I led. From the kind of man I was.”
Nina said, “You’ve always been a good father.”
“I’ve tried to be the kind of father I wished I had. But sooner or later, I knew Harlan Carter would catch up to me. And he has.”
“How? No one knows.”
“Everyone knows. Everyone. Abel Brewster told me the other day he had it figured out. So does Ford. And the McCabes all know.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Jack knows?”
“Oh, yeah. His father figured it out. His father’s a gunhawk just like I was. Just like I am. Takes one to know one. He could tell by the look in my eye. It was just a matter of time for him to put two-and-two together. And his boys all know. That boy, Jack, he’s just like me. He might not be exactly like I am, but it’s close enough.
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 30