Hunter leaned in the doorway, a tin cup full of coffee in one hand.
“Been doing some thinking,” Jack said.
“What about?”
Jack took a sip of coffee. A cloud hung high in the sky overhead, and a light breeze worked its way down from the nearest ridge. It brought with it a hint of balsam.
“July Fourth,” Jack said.
Hunter shrugged. “Almost a month ago.”
Jack nodded. “Been thinking about the man Josh thought he saw. That outlaw they call White-Eye.”
“You boys rode all through the hills. Didn’t find anything.”
Jack shook his head. “Of course, he could have just stuck to the trails.”
“Not the way of that outfit.”
“Not the way they did things last summer. Doesn’t mean they haven’t learned something.”
Hunter nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of coffee. “If it was actually him Josh saw, do you think he’s still in the area?”
Jack shook his head. “Got no reason to think so at all. I don’t really have any reason to think it actually was White-Eye. Josh isn’t even sure. But I have this nagging feeling of warning. Right here.” He reached a hand to the back of his head.
Hunter said, “A wise man listens to his gut feelings.”
“That’s what Pa always said.”
“And your Pa is a wise man. Have you talked to Dusty and Josh about it?”
Jack shook his head again. “They’re off moving the herd. And besides, they’ve done enough to help. If I’m gonna be the marshal here, I have to handle some things myself.”
They were silent for a few moments. Jack took another sip of coffee, finishing off his cup.
He said, “If they’re in the area, they need to eat. That means they need supplies. And I can’t see men like that looking for honest work.”
“That means they must be stealin.’”
“Indeed. When the stage was last in, I asked Walt if he had heard of any robberies in the Bozeman area, or if there had been any problems at any of the way stations between Bozeman and Cheyenne.”
“What’d he say?”
“Said he hadn’t heard of any. But there was a small mining operation robbed up near Helena. A man was killed, his cabin looted and burned. But those things happen in mining areas.”
“They do. But you still got that naggin’ feelin’.”
“I do.”
“Then, you gotta act on it. Your Pa would do no less.”
Hunter went back into the saloon, and Jack sat and looked at the town. Things were quiet at the hotel. Franklin was on the boardwalk in front of his emporium with a broom in his hands. He had swept a pile of dirt out onto the boardwalk and was now sweeping it away into the street. The church was quiet.
Hunter was right. The robbery and murder up Helena way was probably not in the slightest bit related to the man Josh thought he saw July Fourth. But Jack couldn’t let it rest. Not until he was sure. After all, this was why he was wearing the badge.
He decided to walk over to Jeb Arthur’s livery and saddle his horse, and take a ride.
Jack headed into the valley and rode down the stretch to the Johnson ranch.
When Zack Johnson visited the McCabes or stopped in at Hunter’s for a beer, he was usually clean shaven. But Jack caught him working, and he was covered with sweat and dust and had a week’s worth of whiskers on his jaw.
Johnson and his men had caught some wild mustangs, and had them in a circular corral within view of the house.
The Johnson spread was smaller than the Circle M. Not quite a thousand head. The house itself was a single-floor shack made of upright planks nailed into place, and had a stone chimney. The house was built on a flat stretch, and in the distance was a pine covered ridge.
Johnson was standing by the fence, watching one of his men saddle a mustang. Johnson turned to look over his shoulder at the sound of an approaching horse.
He broke into a smile. “Well, the law decides to pay us a visit.”
Jack reined up. A layer of dust had settled on his sombrero and along his vest and the tin star pinned to it.
Jack said, “Thought it was time for a visit. Been many a moon since I’ve seen your place.”
“Not changed much.”
Jack swung out of the saddle and shook hands with him.
Johnson said, “We heard the news, that you’re the town marshal. That badge looks good on you.”
Johnson called his wrangler over to tend Jack’s horse, and they stood and watched Ramon, Johnson’s ramrod, climb into the saddle of the mustang. The mustang began bucking and humping, but Ramon held onto the saddle, with one hand holding the reins and the other out beside him.
The cowhands were whooping and calling out, “Ride ‘em, Ramon!”
Jack counted maybe five seconds before Ramon became airborne and landed hard in the dirt. Two other cowhands hopped down from the fence and ran toward the horse, which was bucking away as the though rider was still on its back. Mad as hell and trying to rid itself of its saddle. Ramon rose to his feet a little slowly and hobbled his way back to the fence. He slid out between two rails.
“You all right?” Johnson said.
Ramon nodded. “I’ll live.”
Johnson looked to Jack. “Want to give it a try?”
Jack shook his head with a grin. “Not me. I’m just a college boy, remember?”
Johnson slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go to the house. Got a bottle of scotch that needs a little emptying. Ramon, you comin’?”
Ramon nodded. “After that ride, I could use a little scotch.”
The house was a one-room structure, with an iron stove and a set of cupboards on one wall, a line of bunks on the other, and a table in the center.
Johnson went to the cupboard and produced a bottle. No need for glasses, Jack figured, this far out from civilization.
Jack pulled out a chair and settled into it. Ramon dropped into his chair a little gingerly.
“You sure you’re okay?” Johnson said, handing the bottle to Ramon.
“Nothing a little of this won’t cure.” Ramon Cormier was a little older than Jack, with black hair that curled out from under his sombrero. He had a beard and mustache that was black and fine. Not so much a fashion statement as a simple lack of shaving. He was no gunman and wore his pistol high on his belt and a little to the front, but Jack knew Ramon was no pushover in a fight. He had been with Zack Johnson the summer before, helping defend the McCabe ranch. Such things are not forgotten.
Ramon took a pull from the bottle and handed it to Jack.
They talked about the price of cattle. Rumors that Walt had heard and told Jack about.
Johnson said, “I’m thinking next summer I’ll have enough of a herd to maybe make a drive down the Bozeman to Cheyenne, then east to one of the railheads. I want to talk to your Pa about that. Combining both herds will make the drive a lot easier.”
They talked about Pa’s overland trip to California, to visit Ma’s grave.
“He’s been gone a few weeks now,” Jack said. “We don’t really expect to hear from him until maybe next spring.”
The bottle went back to Johnson. “I was there, when your Ma was killed. I was in the stable rubbing down a horse. I heard the gunshot. We trailed that man well into the Sierra Nevadas, but then the trail went cold.”
Ramon said, “You never found out who did it?”
Jack shook his head. “At this rate, I doubt we ever will.”
They talked a bit about the old days. Zack Johnson talked about his time in the Texas Rangers. With some whiskey in him, he became quite the storyteller. He told once again about catching a Comanche arrow in the leg and being knocked from his horse, and Pa taking down ten Comanches with as many shots. And he told of tracking Mexican border raiders south into Mexico.
Then Jack told about how Josh thought he saw one of the men who had ridden with Falcone the summer before.
Zack Johnson sudde
nly got serious. “You should’ve said something sooner than this.”
Jack shook his head. “Not much to tell. Josh saw him for only an instant. It might not have been him. We rode through the ridges cutting for sign, and found none. I did some riding through the ridges myself in the weeks after that, and saw nothing.”
“Still,” Johnson said, “I’m gonna take me a ride into the hills this afternoon and take a look around. Bronc bustin’ is over for the day. Ramon,” he looked at his ramrod, “I want you to take Coyote and ride up the stretch and stay at the McCabe place until Josh and Dusty are back. That is, if you’re wounded pride can sit a saddle that long.”
Ramon grinned. “I’ll manage.”
Johnson said to Jack, “Coyote Gomez is one of my top hands. Can track a man through a river at midnight, and he’s a crack shot.”
Jack rode back across the valley with Ramon and Gomez. Aunt Ginny invited them all for tea.
As they sat on the porch, Ramon and Coyote in their oily and dusty chaps as they hadn’t taken time to clean up, Aunt Ginny said, “I really feel badly about you boys coming all the way out here. I hate to be a burden.”
“No burden at all,” Ramon said.
After their cup was finished, Ramon and Coyote headed for the bunkhouse, and Ginny walked with Jack to the corral. Fred had dropped a loop on a fresh horse and switched saddles, and the new horse was tethered to a fence rail, waiting for Jack.
“Jackson,” she said, “I’ve given some thought to your decision not to return to school. It’s a shame you couldn’t have told your father before he left.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “A shame? I suppose. And yet, I have to admit, when it comes to telling him news that might disappoint him, I find myself a coward.”
She shook her head. “I doubt anyone would ever use the word coward when referring to you. Not after the way you conducted yourself on the trail keeping those settlers safe. Rescuing Nina Harding. And then facing down that cowhand a few weeks ago when he drew on you.”
He looked at her with surprise.
She said, “Oh, yes. I’ve heard. People are talking about you, Jack. I find it’s difficult for a McCabe man to go long without people talking about him. A McCabe man tends to cut a wide swath through life.”
“Well, I still don’t know how I’m going to tell Pa. Facing him and giving him news he won’t want to hear.”
“What makes you think he won’t want to hear it? You boys think you know your father, but I sometimes wonder if you really do. You spend too much time comparing yourself to the legend instead of simply looking at the man.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t see much difference between the legend and the man.”
Jack slid the rein free from the rail.
“Jackson,” Aunt Ginny said, “have you considered writing him a letter? Explaining it all to him?”
He looked at her. He hadn’t considered that.
She said, “Address it to him at your Uncle Matt’s ranch. He’ll likely be spending part of the winter there. You can send the letter out on next Wednesday’s stage. It should be at Matt’s before the summer’s out.”
He nodded. “I’ll consider that. Thank you.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek and then swung into the saddle. She stood and watched the young man she thought she knew so well but realized she was only beginning to know, as he rode away toward the trail that would take him out of the valley.
41
Jack wrote his letter. He sat at his desk in his little office with a candle burning, and tried to put pen to paper. He found he was getting nowhere, so he then decided to move the project over to Hunter’s. A shot of whiskey might make the words flow more easily.
He sat and filled the page. And the following Wednesday, he handed the letter to Walt.
Walt was a tall man with stooped shoulders and a beard that was mostly white. Jack didn’t think Walt was much older than Pa, but he had an old way about him. Some men have an old way about them even when they’re young. Jack figured Walt was probably one of them.
Walt said, “I’ll have this down to Cheyenne in a week, and then it’ll be on a train bound for San Francisco.”
“Thanks, Walt.”
The days blended together. Jack began each morning at Hunter’s for coffee and eggs, prepared by Chen.
Chen was small and elderly. A long white braid ran down his back, and he had a thin white goatee. And yet he moved like a young man. He stepped lightly and quickly, and he was quick to laugh. And the most important thing, Jack thought, was the man could cook. Before Chen, Dusty would sometimes serve as cook at Hunter’s, but generally if you wanted a meal in this small town, you headed for Shapleigh’s. Now things had changed. Stage passengers who were hungry were heading directly to Hunter’s. Shapleigh had even asked Hunter if Hunter would loan Chen to him sometimes.
One day, Hunter said to Jack, “Chen’s also gonna tend bar for me on Saturday nights.”
Jack said, “How’s this little guy gonna keep a couple dozen rowdy cowhands from walking all over him?”
Hunter grinned. “That’s your job, since you’re wearin’ that tin star.”
“I can’t be everywhere at once.”
Jack was sitting at a table with a plate of eggs and a couple strips of bacon, and a cup of trail coffee. Hunter looked across the room where the old man was pushing a broom. He didn’t look like much, Jack thought. Small and thin. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. He wore a flannel shirt that bagged on him, and levis maybe a size too big that were held together with a length of rope through the belt loops.
“Hey, Chen,” Hunter called out. “Come on over here.”
Chen came over, broom in hand. “Yes, Boss?”
“Jack, try to push Chen down.”
Jack looked at him as if to say, you’ve got to be joking.
Hunter said, “Go on. Give it a try.”
Chen was standing there, grinning.
Jack said, “This is foolishness.”
Hunter said, “Afraid to try, huh?”
Jack sighed with disbelief. He couldn’t believe Hunter was going to go that route. Challenge his courage.
Jack got wearily to his feet. “All right.”
He placed a hand on Chen’s shoulder and gave a gentle push.
“That all you got?” Chen said. He spoke with a hint of an accent, but he had apparently been on this side of the ocean a long time.
“Go ahead,” Hunter said. “Push him right onto the floor. If you can, I’ll give you ten dollars.”
Jack looked at him. He had to be kidding. Ten dollars? That was almost what a cowhand made in a month. But to push down an old man just seemed wrong.
Chen reached out with the broom and cracked Jack in the ear with the end of the handle.
“Ow,” Jack said, stepping back. He had to admit, the old man had moved faster than he would have thought.
Chen said to Hunter, “He can’t push me down, I get the ten dollars.”
Hunter said, “It’s a deal.”
All right, Jack thought. Let’s get this farce over with. Jack was six inches taller than the old man, and had probably fifty more pounds of muscle. He reached his hand to the old man’s shoulder and gave a shove.
Except the old man was no longer there. He had stepped aside, not seeming to move quickly but he somehow had, and Jack found himself pushing at empty air. He managed to hold his balance, but just barely.
The old man was smiling. Hunter was grinning.
Jack then placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder to give a shove, but the old man reached up and grabbed Jack’s thumb with a hand that was surprisingly strong, and he twisted and Jack found pain shooting through his hand. The old man pulled downward as he twisted, and Jack was forced down to one knee. The old man was still holding onto the broom with the other hand.
“Hey,” he said.
Chen then gave him a light tap on the head with the broom. “This a knife or a club o
r a gun, and you’re dead.”
He released Jack, who rose back to his feet. His thumb and wrist were a little sore.
Chen looked at Hunter and said, “Ten dollars.”
Hunter nodded with a grin. “I’ll go get it. It’s in the box in my room.”
The box in Hunter’s room was what passed for a safe.
“How’d you do that?” Jack said.
“You push, and I move. You strong like the oak, I am strong like the wind.”
An old man who speaks in poetic nonsense, Jack thought. “Can you show me how you did that?”
Chen shrugged. “Can you learn?”
“Can I learn? Until last spring, I was in medical school at Harvard.”
Chen shrugged again. Apparently this meant nothing to him. Jack realized the old man might never have heard of Harvard.
Chen said, “You need to unlearn what you’ve learned. Strong is good, but quick is better. Huh?”
Jack shrugged. The boxing coach at Harvard had said something similar once. In fact, Pa had also when he was teaching Jack and Josh some Shoshone wrestling tricks.
Hunter returned with the ten dollars. “You’re not gonna believe how old he is.”
“Ninety-two,” Chen said.
Jack looked at him incredulously. Not for the first time this morning. “Ninety-two?”
Chen took his ten dollars from Hunter, and then went back to sweeping the floor.
Hunter said, “I think he’ll be able to handle himself behind the bar.”
August blended into September. The days became a little less hot, and the nights were cool enough at this altitude that sometimes Jack needed to wear a jacket.
Aunt Ginny and Bree and Temperance came into town for supplies a couple of times. Jack would stop in on the local businesses every morning to make certain all was well. Every night, he walked his rounds, which didn’t take long because the town was so small. He also rode out to the Freemans’ cabin two or three times a week to make certain all was well.
A couple of times he saddled up and took a ride through the ridges around town, looking for tracks or signs of camps that had been made. He found none. And all this time, there was no sign of White-Eye. He was starting to think more and more that the man Josh had seen was indeed someone else.
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 36