“A life with him will put you in danger. His mother was killed by a bullet meant for his father. I don’t want you to have to live that kind of life.”
“But I love him.”
“Honey,” he shook his head sadly. “You’re young. You don’t know what love is.”
It dawned on her. “That’s why you wanted us to leave for Oregon.”
He nodded. “There’s still time.”
“But don’t you see, Father? We’ll still be running. And then when someone there figures it out, what do we do? Run some more? Where? Canada? Alaska? Sooner or later we’ll run out of places to run to.”
He shook his head.
“Carter,” Emily said, “we can’t keep running forever. This is good land. You’ve said yourself the dirt here is some of the best you’ve seen. And the neighbors are good people.”
“They know who I am, Em. It’s just a matter of time before the law comes for me. And it’ll be the gallows.”
“You’re not that man anymore.”
He touched a hand to the side of her face, letting the fingers trail along her cheekbone. “The law won’t see it that way. And, really, I am. Deep down, I am. I can run from myself for a while, but eventually you can’t run no more.”
Nina said, “Jack won’t tell. I know he won’t. And I don’t believe his family will, either.”
He shook his head. “You’re asking me to trust my entire family’s well-being to a group of people who are gunhawks themselves. Not much better than I was. You can bet Johnny McCabe couldn’t even tell you the number of men he has killed. And even though that boy, Jack, may have been off at school in the east, you can see it in his eye. And the way he carries that gun.”
“He’s a man of honor. All of the McCabe men are. And Bree saved my life.”
He shook his head sadly. “There ain’t no honor in killin’. Men of the gun are really all the same, for the most part.”
“Carter,” Emily said, “come back to the camp. Put the whiskey down. We can have some coffee and talk this out. Decide what to do.”
“No need, Em. I’ve given it all I could. Protected you both from my past and that kind of life all I can. And now it’s all caught up with me.”
He turned and started to walk away, the bottle of whiskey still in his left hand.
“Father,” Nina said, and began to hobble after him.
“No,” Emily caught her arm. “Let him go. Sometimes a man needs to be alone.”
“Mother..,”
“In some ways, I think he has really always been alone.”
They stood, the wind rippling their skirts, watching Harlan Carter walk away. His head down, his shoulders bent. A bottle of whiskey in one hand, a gunbelt buckled about his waist. Emily reached out and took her daughter’s hand.
Harlan Carter wandered. He was angry. He was saddened. He would take a pull from the whiskey bottle and he kept on wandering.
At the edge of the valley floor he came to the woods. Mostly pines, standing tall. He was at the opposite side of the valley from the pass leading to the town. This was good. He wanted to be alone. He didn’t need any rider passing by on his way to town.
He wandered through the woods. He took another drink of whiskey. He walked, and he cursed the name of Jack McCabe. If not for meeting him back in Cheyenne – if not for Abel Brewster insisting they ask him to come along as their guide – then Carter Harding would not have been exposed as Harlan Carter. He wouldn’t be on the verge of seeing his daughter immersed into the very life he had tried to protect her from. And he wouldn’t be facing a noose. Sure, Brewster knew who he was, and apparently Ford did, but Harding didn’t think he had to be concerned about them.
He wandered through the woods. Sweat was soaking his hair and his shirt.
He realized he wasn’t feeling well. His legs were wobbly and he felt a little light headed. Dehydration. He needed water. It was hot out, and the only fluids he had taken in for the past couple of hours were from the whiskey bottle.
He staggered down a slope, slipping a little on the pine straw but managing to keep his footing. At the bottom was a small stream, barely more than a long, thin puddle moving along between rocks. He didn’t care. It was wet. He knelt down and with his hands he scooped water into his mouth.
It was a little brackish. Only a few inches deep, and the bottom of the stream was covered by brown pine needles.
He scooped a few mouthfuls, the water spilling down over his beard and onto his shirt. He then took a chug from the whiskey bottle to cover the taste of the water, and pushed to his feet and continued on.
He was steadier, now. The light headedness was gone and his legs felt stronger. He walked aimlessly, following a downhill slope. He didn’t realize he had changed direction, but he came back out onto the long grassy meadow that covered the floor of the valley.
His vision was a little blurry. The heat, maybe. And the whiskey. He looked out from the edge of the woods, surveying the scene before him, but realized he couldn’t see it all that well.
He was feeling tired, suddenly. Drowsy. He realized he was standing by a tall pine at the edge of the forest, and he was in the shade. He sat down and leaned his back against the tree. It was actually surprisingly comfortable. He drifted off.
He awoke sometime later. He had no pocket watch. He glanced up at the sun and saw it was somewhere between its zenith and the western horizon. Mid afternoon, maybe. He had been gone for hours. He didn’t really care. Emily and Nina didn’t need him anymore.
His vision was a little clearer now, and he realized he could see a house from where he was. It was a ways in the distance. Half a mile, maybe. Made of logs, and with he could see smoke rising from a stone chimney. A barn stood in front of the house, and another long building that was one floor high. A bunkhouse, maybe.
Must be the McCabe spread, he figured. And there, he would find the source of his problems. The one who had ruined his life. The boy, Jack.
He pushed himself to his feet and started through the tall grass. He took another pull of the whiskey bottle as he walked along. He then drew his gun and checked the loads. He had done some target shooting this morning and he had no cartridges on him. His gunbelt had no loops for cartridges. But there were two shots left in his gun. One was all he would need.
35
Jack and Dusty rode up to the corral and swung out of the saddle in front of the corral. Sweat was streaking the back of Jack’s shirt from under his vest. Dusty wore no vest, and his shirt was visibly wet down the back. They had taken the day to ride through another set of ridges, looking for tracks. Josh had intended to join them, but Dusty talked him out of it. Josh and Dusty were leaving for the line cabin in the morning to finish up rounding up any strays, and Dusty thought Josh should spend the day with Temperance. He and Dusty would probably be gone three or four days.
Jack had volunteered to go too, but Josh had said, “No need for that. You’re here for a vacation, not to work. Spend some time with Aunt Ginny and Bree, or seeing your girl.”
Fred had heard the hoofbeats as they rode in, and was stepping out of the barn. “See anything?”
Jack shook his head. “A few bear tracks. We scared up an elk but we couldn’t get a shot at him. No signs of riders, though.”
Fred glanced toward the ridge to the west. There were dark clouds rising like a mountain floating in the sky. “Looks like rain, anyway. Any tracks that might be there will be washed away by morning. Want me to take care of these horses?”
“If you don’t mind,” Dusty said.
Fred led the horses away. Jack walked over to a water trough and pulled his hat off and dipped it deep in the water, and then held it up and let it flow down over his head like a small waterfall. He dipped his hat again, when something caught his eye. “What’s this?”
It was an empty whiskey bottle, lying on its side by the water trough. He picked it up, and looked at Dusty.
Dusty’s hat was off and he had been about to dump water over hi
mself, too. "Who’s could that be? Pa doesn’t allow any drinking on the job.”
Then they heard the voice of Harlan Carter from behind them. “Don’t neither of you move. I got a gun trained on you, and I still remember how to use it.”
Jack said, “Carter. Nice of you to come pay us a visit.”
“Quiet your tongue, boy. You done caused me enough trouble. I could just shoot you down now, for all you done.”
“Does Nina know you’re here?”
“Don’t matter no more. I lost her.”
Dusty said, “Look, Carter, you shoot us down and you’re gonna be in a world of trouble. Do you really want Johnny McCabe on your trail? Or our brother Josh?”
Fred, however, had stepped into the barn but could hear the exchange. He pulled a Winchester from one of the boys’ saddles. He jacked the lever very slowly, chambering a round quietly so the sound wouldn’t carry, then he stepped out of the barn and brought the rifle to his shoulder and leveled it at Carter.
“Drop that gun,” Fred said. “I got me a Winchester here. It’ll blow a whole the size of a silver dollar in you from this distance. I may not be a big, bad gunhawk like you, but if you think I can’t plug you from here before you can fire that gun, you got another thing comin’.”
Jack turned to face Carter. “Do you really want it like this? An exchange of gunfire? You might get me, but Fred and Dusty will riddle you with holes.”
Carter said, “He don’t even have his gun out.”
“You’ve never seen him draw.” Not that Jack had, either, but he had heard the stories.
“So, you got me. Now what? Send for the territorial marshal?”
Jack unbuckled his gunbelt. “You’ve been wanting a piece of me for a while. Now’s your chance. Let’s settle this like men. Face-to-face.”
“With our fists?”
“What – are you afraid, old man?”
Carter’s shirt was soaked with dirt and sweat. His hair was wet and plastered to his skull, partly from sweat and partly from dunking his head in the water trough, when he had set down his whiskey bottle. From where he was standing, Jack guessed he had been hiding in the tack shed, waiting for Jack. The tack room was a small lean-to built to the side of the barn with a doorway that opened to the outside, but another that opened into the barn.
Carter holstered his pistol, and unbuckled the gunbelt, letting it fall to the ground.
Jack said to Dusty and Fred, “Don’t either of you interfere. This is between Carter and me.”
“That’s right,” Carter said, balling his hands into fists. “This has been a long time comin’.”
Dusty leaned back on the fence. “Oh, I ain’t gonna interfere. I’m gonna enjoy this.”
Fred lowered his rifle and walked over to Dusty, and leaned one elbow against the top rail. “Too bad Hunter’s not here. He always enjoys a good scrappin’.”
Jack and Carter circled each other. Carter stood a good four inches taller, with a lean, hard muscled body. Jack’s frame was more compact, but with cleanly defined muscle from his boxing and his time on the rowing team.
Carter said, “I fought men to the death before you were even born, boy. You’re goin’ down.”
Jack was eyeing Carter warily, but he couldn’t help a grin forming. He had to admit, he liked this. “I hear the talk, old man. But I’m not seeing any results.”
Carter then charged, swinging his fist at Jack’s head with the same motion. Jack ducked and swung a hard hook into Carter’s midsection. Carter’s stomach was solid muscle, but Jack threw his own hard muscle into it, grunting with the effort, and Carter’s own momentum helped.
Carter went down to one knee, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and the other hand flat on the ground. He huffed for air.
“You’re stronger than you look, boy.”
Jack stayed a few feet back, bouncing a little from one foot to the other. He often did this in the ring. He found if he was already in motion, he could react to his opponent better than if he was standing flat-footed.
“You done?” Jack said.
“I don’t know. I’m a lot older’n the last time I did this.”
Jack waited. Carter huffed for air. Jack danced back and forth on his feet. Carter shook his head defeatedly, and Jack stopped dancing.
Carter then sprang from his kneeling position directly at Jack and wrapped his arms around Jack’s chest and lifted and threw. Jack came to a sliding stop in the dirt. Before he could begin to rise, Carter was on him, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him to his feet. His shirt tore and some of the material came loose in Carter’s grip.
Carter then drove a right hook into the side of Jack’s jaw. Jack heard a crunching sound and saw black as his feet went flying out from under him and he landed hard on the ground.
Carter then walked warily around Jack while Jack blinked his eyes. Black spots were floating about. The side of his face felt numb.
Carter stopped and looked down at Jack. Carter said, “I’m gonna enjoy this.”
And Carter drove a foot down at Jack. However Jack was in motion, lifting his knee and driving a foot up and into Carter’s groin.
Carter staggered back, and then dropped to one knee again. Jack rose to his feet, staggered a bit, and then held his balance.
Carter looked at him with hatred, but some of the fire was gone.
Jack said, “Old Shoshone trick. They taught my Pa how to fight. He taught me.”
“It’ll take more than tricks to handle me, boy.”
Carter rose to his feet, and they charged at each other.
Carter swung a fist, and Jack ducked. Jack drove one into Carter’s midsection. Carter wrapped his arms around Jack and lifted him from the ground, but Jack had one arm free and drove a fist into Carter’s face. The fist caught his nose, but Carter wouldn’t release the grip. Jack struck again and caught him in the eye. This time, Carter let go.
Jack stood with his feet far apart and drove punch after punch into Carter’s midsection. Carter staggered back a bit, then came in for a punch but Jack ducked, and then stepped in with more punches to the midsection.
Dusty said conversationally to Fred, “This is where a smaller man has the advantage. In close like that. Jack knows what he’s doin’.”
Fred nodded. “He was taught by the best.”
Blood was streaming down Carter’s nose, and one eye had swollen shut. Jack added to his woes by driving an uppercut into his jaw. Carter’s knees buckled and he went down.
He rose to his hands and knees, his head hanging. He was coughing, and he spit a little blood. He wasn’t faking this time.
He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t. He fell back to sit in the dirt. Blood was streaming down over his chin onto his shirt. He tried to say something, but only coughed some more.
“All right,” Dusty said, stepping in between them. “You’re both done.”
Harding rose to his knees, and Fred grabbed him by one arm and helped pull him to his feet. Harding staggered back a couple of steps, but managed not to fall over. Fred handed him a bandanna that he held to his nose.
Fred said, “We should get you home.”
“I can get myself home.”
“You can hardly walk, and it’s almost two miles to your camp. I’m gonna fetch a horse for you.”
Harding didn’t say no.
“Come on,” Dusty said to Jack. “Let’s get in the house and get you cleaned up.”
Jack started toward the house with Dusty. He had taken a serious punch to the side of his jaw, and he felt a little unsteady. Maybe a concussion. He thought he maybe should go into town and see Granny Tate. It wouldn’t hurt to have her look at his shoulder, either. It hadn’t been bothering him at all for a while, but now he could feel it stiffening up a little. And it was hurting to move his jaw.
He said, “The worst part of all this will be facing Aunt Ginny.”
Dusty shook his head. “The worst part of all of this will be explaining to your girl how you
beat the hell out of her father.”
36
Harlan Carter hadn’t ridden a horse since he became a farmer, but he found it all came back to him and despite his injuries he was able to keep from falling out of the saddle. His head was pounding and he wasn’t sure how much of it was from the whiskey, and how much from the pounding Jack McCabe had given him.
He hated to take the horse offered to him by the McCabe’s wrangler. He hated to take anything from those people. But there was no way he could have made it back to the camp, as beaten up as he was.
He had taken numerous punches to the stomach and ribs – more than he could count, and he felt every one of them as he swung out of the saddle.
It was near dark. Nina had been in the tent and had heard the horse approaching. She stepped out and saw him half-fall out of the saddle. She screamed, “Father!” and went to him, managing a hobbling run.
Emily had been at the cookfire, maybe twenty yards behind the tent, focused on roasting a haunch of venison. Age Brewster had gone hunting that afternoon, and returned with a large buck, and the Brewsters shared the meat with everyone. Emily hadn’t heard the horse approaching, but she heard her daughter scream and looked over at the sound.
“Carter,” she said, and left the fire and went running over.
Carter stood, wavering a bit, one arm wrapped about his ribs. The blood had stopped leaking from his nose, but his shirt was stained with it. Emily didn’t know if he had been shot, or what had happened to him.
Even though Nina needed a cane to help her get along on her sprained ankle, she sidled up to her father and pulled his arm about her shoulders to try to help him stand.
“Father,” she said. “What happened?”
“Wasn’t sure you’d want to call me that, after you knew the truth.”
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 31