Return of the Gunhawk (The McCabes Book 3)

by Brad Dennison

  “Nothing legal, that’s for sure.”

  Joe spoke from behind them. “First we gotta get them women and children to Montana. And the Swan herd. Then we can take care of business.”

  Matt said, “Joe. Didn’t see you there. Sorry,” he took the cigar from his mouth. “I would’ve broken it three ways if I had seen you there.”

  Joe said, “A cigar broken three ways ain’t much of a cigar. Besides, I’m not really a cigar smoker. Them cigars of yours are mighty good, but too much of it can foul up the lungs.”

  “True.”

  Joe said, “So, first order of business is to get everyone to Montana.”

  Zack and Dusty were walking up. Zack said, “Then we’ll deal with things, our way.”

  Dusty had a cup of coffee in his hand and his hat was flipped back, hanging from the chinstrap.

  Dusty said, “You know, you won’t be doing this alone.”

  His Pa said, “Dusty, I can’t ask you to go along with what we have to do. We’ll be breaking more laws than I’m even aware of.”

  “You’re not asking. Your mission is mine. We’re family, remember?”

  Johnny grinned. “That’s something I’ll never forget.”

  Matt took a deep draw of cigar. Lord, but he would miss these. He let out a smoky exhale up toward the night sky.

  “This isn’t over yet,” he said. “We have a reprieve, thanks to Sam Middleton, or whatever his name is. But there was nothing in the provisions he made that allow Jessica to keep this valley. If Verna believes there is gold to be had in those cliffs, she’ll stop at nothing to get it. She’ll find some way.”

  Johnny said, “What do you have in mind?”

  “I still have to ride out and talk with her. Cut a deal. That much hasn’t changed.”

  “Should be a might easier without folks shooting at you.”

  “Should be that.”

  “I’ll be going along.”

  Matt shook his head. “No need to, really. It should be safe enough.”

  “I’d like to, though. I have a few things to say to her. She accused me of murder. I take that kind of thing personally.”

  “All right, then. First thing in the morning?”

  Johnny nodded.

  The men dispersed. Matt and Joe went out aways from the house and began building a campfire. With the barn gone there was no shelter for them and even though this was California, the nights still got cold. Not cold enough to freeze the water in the trough, but still downright cold. There was no room in the house, but Joe said, “We can sleep outdoors by the fire. We done it enough in the old times, and some of them nights were colder than this.”

  Johnny stepped into the kitchen for a last cup of coffee. Truth to tell, he was hoping to see Jessica once more before turning in. Maybe sneak a good-night kiss. In these times, discretion was the first order of business. Holding hands at the burial today was about as public as a respectable would get with their love.

  What he found was Tom sitting in the kitchen with a half-finished cup of coffee. Tom was sitting with his shoulders bent, his elbows on the table like he was bracing himself for a strong wind, and he was staring at nothing in particular.

  Johnny said, “That was a good sermon you gave today. Your father told me in a letter a couple of years ago that you had been ordained, but I’ve never heard you preach. If you’d like to come with us to Montana, and I hope you do, maybe you could build a church.”

  “They don’t have one there?” Tom asked, but he continued staring. Not looking up from whatever point his eyes were fixed on.

  Johnny touched the side of the kettle. Though the fire in the stove was burning low, the kettle was hot to touch. He grabbed a tin cup from the counter. There was some old coffee looking dark at the bottom. A cup someone had placed on the counter and it hadn’t been washed yet. What the hey, he thought. It was trail coffee. Not much you can do to hurt that. He grabbed the kettle and filled the cup.

  He said, “Yeah, we have a church up there. But it wouldn’t hurt to have a Methodist church in the area, led by a good young preacher full of energy and spirit. You never know, you might even see me in the congregation once in a while.”

  “Are you a Christian, Uncle Johnny?”

  Johnny raised his brows and tilted his head in a sort of shrug. “Well, my mother raised me Christian. I believe in Jesus. But life has made me Shoshone.”

  Tom nodded. “Legend has it you lived among the Shoshone for a while.”

  “I actually joined their tribe.”

  That got a pair of raised brows from Tom and now he looked at his uncle. “They would let a white man join their tribe?”

  Johnny nodded, and took a sip of coffee. He could imagine Ginny scowling over the thought of drinking thick, muddy trail coffee and the image made him smile inside.

  He said, “Most Indian tribes have prejudice. It’s part of being human, I think. But their prejudice is not related to the color of a man’s skin. It’s focused entirely on which tribe you belong to.”

  Tom was looking at Johnny like he was speaking a foreign language.

  Johnny continued, “To the Shoshone, anyone who is not Shoshone is potentially an enemy. The same with the Cheyenne, and the Lakota.”

  “The who?”

  “White men call them the Sioux. Joe joined the Cheyenne years ago, and he used to wear a strip of fabric with Cheyenne colors on his gunbelt. He had to take it off when we went to stay with the Shoshone so they wouldn’t see him as an enemy. We wintered with them in the little valley I now call home. We were with them nigh onto five months. I spent a lot of time with an old shaman. White men would call him a medicine man. He taught me their ways, and eventually invited me to join their tribe.”

  Tom said, “I had no idea.”

  Johnny nodded. “A lot of folks don’t. For some reason, it never made the tall stories about me that circulate about.”

  “So, do you consider yourself Christian or Shoshone?”

  “Both.”

  “How is that humanly possible?”

  “Because I believe the Shoshone are just looking at the whole spiritual business from a different angle. Same truth, different angle.”

  Johnny expected to get a ministerial onslaught from him. Tom was, after all, a preacher. Lots of hellfire and damnation, and how he was going to hell and such. But instead Tom just looked away, back into whatever distance he was seeing.

  Tom was in a white shirt and suspenders. His hair was a little unkempt and Johnny realized he hadn’t shaved. Unusual for Tom. Despite living conditions more rustic than he was accustomed to, he usually found time to shave in the morning.

  Johnny said, “What’s eating at you, boy?”

  “During the gunfight this morning, do you know what was going on back here at the house?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Not really.”

  “We heard the noise. It was loud, when volleys of shots began firing. Something about the canyon and the acoustics. Like a giant cathedral, I suppose. We heard every shot, good and loud. And we were afraid those attacking would get past you and come up to the house. You see, I know my family, Uncle Johnny. My mother and my brother Hiram in particular. I know what they’re capable of, which is why I washed my hands of them and stopped going to family functions. I don’t want Mercy around them. I’m afraid some of the influence of whatever is so dark inside my mother and that has infected Hiram might fall onto Mercy, too. But even though I am out of contact with them, I keep my ear to the ground. After all, they exercise a lot of control in the town in which I live, and on the congregation I preach to. I know that my mother wants this canyon because geologists in her employ have estimated that there might be millions of dollars in gold ore buried away in those cliffs. And I know she would be able to lay claim to it a lot more easily if no one was left alive to challenge her claim.

  “And so, we sat up here at the house, afraid. Listening to every shot. I held Lettie tightly, trying to make her feel safe, but realizing I co
uld do absolutely nothing if those men came up the hill to attack this house. I grabbed a rifle, but knew I would be useless if they attacked, and Ches is in no position to fight, what with his bullet wound. It would all fall onto Zack’s shoulders.”

  Tom looked at his uncle. “I’m the pastor of the Methodist church in Greenville. Some say I’m a good one. But I’m a failure as a man, Uncle Johnny.”

  Johnny drew a breath thoughtfully. “I don’t know that I’d say that.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “How do you define manhood? By the guns that your father and I wear? Or your Uncle Joe or your cousin Dusty?”

  “Or by the fact that as soon as you get Jessica and Cora settled in Montana you’ll be riding down to Mexico to free Sam Middleton? Even if you have to bust him out of prison?”

  “And how would you possibly know that?” Johnny knew Tom couldn’t have heard them talking outside.

  “Because as I know my mother and Hiram, I also know my father. And through him and his stories, I know you and Uncle Joe. Yes, I know the legends about you, but through my father I know the real you, also.”

  Johnny pulled a chair and sat down. “There’s more than one kind of man in this world, Tom. What you said out there at the graveside told me a lot about you. Many a preacher would have taken the opportunity to fill the air with lots of words. Trying to get everyone to repent. They would have quoted verses from the Good Book and raised their fist in the air. Sometimes I think these preachers are more about selling themselves than anything else. Enough of a fiery delivery can move a man emotionally and make him want to follow you. It seems to me a lot of people go to church to follow the minister, not God. But you didn’t do that. You just said a piece, short and sweet. From the heart. One of the best pieces of preaching I ever did hear. People need this, Tom. They need real preaching that is not about theatrics and showmanship, that’s more about God than the preacher.”

  Tom looked him in the eye. “Uncle Johnny, I want you to show me how to shoot.”

  “Didn’t your father show you how to shoot a gun when you were younger? Dan seems to know.”

  Tom nodded. “Yes. He taught us all how to shoot. Even Hiram. He taught us how to hunt. How to track. He said it was important to know how to survive in the wild.”

  “He’s absolutely right.”

  “But I want to learn how to really shoot. That shot Dusty made, killing that gunfighter, Will Buck. I want you to show me how to do that. Or that impossible shot you made when one of Wells’ men was holding Lettie and threatening to soil her. I want to learn to shoot like that so I can defend my family. So I won’t ever have to quake in fear if something like today should happen again.”

  “I can show you trick shooting. How good you become at it will be about your own personal self. But the shot Dusty made, or the one I made, no amount of trick shooting can show you that. It’s about something inside us. Dusty’s brother Josh, he’s a good trick shooter. I’ve shown him everything I know. But he just can’t do with a pistol what I do, or what Dusty can do. He’s a crack shot with a rifle, though. Better’n me or Dusty. Even your father or Joe. As strange as it is to say about something so deadly, there’s an art to it. And art can’t really be taught.”

  “I still would like you to teach me what you can.”

  Johnny nodded thoughtfully. Weighing all of this. “All right. I’ll show you what I can. But killing a man, that’s something that can’t be taught. And I hope it’s something you never have to do.”

  “I suppose, in a way, it’ll be a contradiction in terms. A preacher who can shoot.”

  “Not really. Not according to that Shoshone shaman. Their journey begins with learning to be a warrior starting in your late teens. By forty or so you’re learning to heal. To be a physician. And by seventy you’re a spiritual leader. As close to what might be called a pastor in our culture.”

  “But they’re just heathens.”

  “That, I’ll debate with you another time.” Johnny got to his feet. “I have to get to sleep. Your father and I are riding out to pay a visit to your mother tomorrow, and we’ll be wanting to get an early start.”

  Johnny stepped outside, his coffee still in hand, and he left Tom alone with his thoughts.

  30

  Matt said, “It seems kind’a strange to be able to just ride along without worrying about someone seeing you, or being shot at.”

  They rode side by side, and were keeping their horses to a shambling trot. Johnny held the reins in his left, his right hand near his gun. As always. Tucked into the saddle boot was the Sharps.

  He said, “For the past two months, we’ve been living every day expecting a war. Now it feels like a pressure cooker with the steam being released.”

  They rode up toward the farmhouse. Four men on the front porch stepped down to meet them. Three held rifles in their hand. The fourth one, with long hair that didn’t look like it had been touched by water since the last rain, stepped toward them. He wore his gun low on his side and tied down.

  “Hold up right there,” he said, squinting into the sun a little. “You two ain’t welcome here.”

  Matt said, “We’ve come to talk to Mrs. McCabe.”

  “Like I said, you ain’t welcome here.”

  The front door opened and Hiram stepped out. “What do you want here?”

  “To talk to you and your mother.”

  Hiram said to the men, “Stand down. Let them in.”

  Johnny and Matt swung out of their saddles. A hitching rail stood in front of the porch so they tethered their horses there.

  Long-hair stepped in front of Johnny. He said, “Cause any trouble in there, and you’ll be leavin’ feet first.”

  “You got me really scared.”

  Long-hair stood a moment, trying to stare him down. Long-hair must have been mid-twenties, Johnny guessed. The problem was, Johnny had done this with a lot of men over the years. The ones who backed down were still alive. At least they were the last time he had seen them. The ones who didn’t were not.

  Long-hair finally stepped aside, making it clear he was doing so reluctantly. Johnny shook his head with a little pity for him, and followed Matt up and into the house.

  Verna was sitting in her rocker by the fire. It occurred to Matt that she sat in rockers a lot. She was often found in the parlor of their previous house sitting in a rocker by the fire. Or in her room at night, sitting by the fire.

  “What do you want, Matthew?” she said without looking up.

  “To talk.”

  “About what? You’ve won. At least for now.”

  “That’s what I want to talk about.” He stepped past Hiram and took a seat on the sofa so he would be facing her. He removed his hat because she was, well, not a lady maybe, but a woman.

  He said, “This has to stop. I’ve come to cut a deal with you.”

  “What kind of a deal?”

  “A full divorce.”

  “And you want half.” She shook her head. “That’s not going to happen. I’ve worked too hard building this financial empire to see half of it pulled away from me.”

  Matt said, “Not half. Leave me ten thousand dollars. The rest is all yours. All of the investments. Everything. I just want a divorce and ten thousand dollars. And I’ll be out of your life. I’ll leave the area and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  She looked at him like a card player trying to read an opponent’s hand. “What’s in it for you, Matthew?”

  “Freedom. A chance to start over.”

  “Do you really think you can build something like this on your own?”

  He shook his head. “We’ll never know, because I don’t intend to try. All I want is to find myself a little plot of land and work it. Maybe run a few head.”

  “You haven’t done a lick of real work in twenty years.”

  Matt was not going to be baited. “Think about it, Verna. The entire financial empire you’ve built, minus ten thousand dollars. That’s a drop in the bucket consideri
ng all that you’re worth. The entire thing minus ten thousand, all in your name alone. I will have no more legal claim to it. All I want is a divorce and a check.”

  She glanced at Hiram who visibly shrugged.

  She said, “And what’s your brother along for? Do you think you need a body guard?”

  “Why would I feel safe here? You tried to have me killed once before.”

  She tried to give a look that said, why, whatever do you mean? But he said, “Will you please suspend with the theatrics? Everyone in this room knows you ordered Timmons to kill me. The poor fool was hopelessly in love with you and would have done anything for you. He proved it that night.”

  “I’ll never admit to anything publicly, or in court.”

  “And I’m not asking you to. I just want the divorce and ten thousand, and I’m on my way.”

  “Where will you go?” Hiram said.

  “Away from here.”

  Verna got to her feet. “How long do I have to consider this?”

  “About forty-five minutes. That’s how long it takes to ride into town from here. There’s a lawyer in town. Gabe Simmons.”

  “The man’s a fool.”

  “The man couldn’t be bought. That doesn’t make him a fool.”

  “Considering what I offered to keep him on retainer, only a fool would turn down money like that.”

  “Gabe’s an honest man. For a lawyer. Johnny and I are going to ride into town to see him. If you and Hiram are with us, then I’ll pursue divorce and you can have the entire estate except for ten thousand. If you’re not with me, then I’m going for half.”

  Hiram said, “He’s bluffing, Mother.”

  Matt said, “The reason I don’t play cards is I’m terrible at bluffing.”

  Verna looked at him long and hard. Then she said, “Hiram, go hitch up the wagon.”

  Gabe Simmons was maybe sixty-ish and heavy set, with hair that was gone at top but white and bushy at the sides, and a walrus-like mustache that covered his mouth almost entirely. He did nothing but chuckle as he wrote up the papers. Gabe was friends with a judge from civil court, and Verna had the judge in her unofficial employ anyway, so the divorce was expected to go through without a snag. There was a small waiting period for the divorce to become official, but no one foresaw any problems. By the end of the day, Matt took a check to the bank and left with a large roll of cash in his vest pocket.