“Just so it’s not the end of us,” Luke said.
Chapter 19
Philomena Burnett wasn’t happy. It was bad enough her husband and sons were going to go off on a drive and leave her and her girls alone for months. Now he was fixing to spend a lot of the money they’d socked away for emergencies and whatnot on things the family didn’t need.
Owen had to buy supplies to purchase for the roundup and the drive. Victuals, and the like. Rope, and a lot of it. Lucifers, for starting campfires. The list was as long as Philomena’s arm.
“You’ve been mighty quiet,” Owen mentioned as he examined a pile of blankets in the general store.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll be back once the roundup is over and stay a few days before we head for Abilene.”
“Provided nothing happens.”
“First Luke and now you,” Owen made light of her concern. “I never realized what worriers you two are.”
“You don’t worry enough,” Philomena said. “Or doesn’t it bother you that the girls and me will be all alone out there? Miles from anywhere, with Comanches about. And who knows what else.”
Owen glanced around as if to be sure no one could hear him. “Don’t tell Luke, but I’m still not convinced he saw one. I didn’t. And we never found any tracks when I went back with Gareth.”
“You’re accusing your own son of lying?”
“No. But our eyes can play tricks on us. Maybe he only thinks he saw a Comanche.” Owen set down a blanket and took one of her hands in both of his. “I’ve been thinking about you and the girls not having a man about the place while me and the boys are away. And I have the solution.”
“You’ll take us with you?”
“I’ll ask Ebidiah Troutman to keep an eye on you. On Ariel Kurst and Wilda Weaver, too. He’s reliable. Plus, you like him, don’t you?”
“I do,” Philomena admitted, “but . . .”
“I knew there’d be one.”
“He’s not you,” Philomena said. “It won’t be the same. And he’s getting on in years. How much use would he be if the Comanches attack?”
“They haven’t bothered us once the whole time we’ve been here,” Owen said. “Why should they pick now?”
“I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling.”
“One of your instincts?”
“Don’t you dare poke fun. Female intuition isn’t to be scoffed at. My ma and my grandma both had powerful premonitions that came true. And I have one that this drive will end badly.”
Owen did something he rarely did in public. Looking her in the eyes, he said tenderly, “You know I love you more than anything on this earth?”
Philomena coughed and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. They had the aisle to themselves, thank goodness.
“Do you think I want to lose you, or put our family at risk? I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion it has to be. Gareth Kurst is right about this.”
Philomena opened her mouth to remark that she wouldn’t trust Gareth Kurst as far as she could throw him.
“Hear me out,” Owen cut her off. “I know you don’t like him. To be honest, I’m not all that fond of the man, myself. He thinks too highly of himself, and his views on a lot of things don’t match mine. But he’s exactly right that this is an opportunity we can’t afford to pass up. You’re going to say that the money doesn’t matter, that our lives are more important. And I agree. But the money isn’t unimportant, either. Not as much as we might make from selling the cattle.”
“But—” Philomena got out.
“I’m not done.” Owen gently squeezed her hands. “I could have told Gareth I wasn’t interested. I could have gone on as we are and not given the money another thought. Only I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”
“Owen, please . . .”
“Let me finish. I’m a husband and a father. Those roles come with obligations. A good husband does the best he can to provide for his wife. A good father tries his best to prepare his young’uns for leaving the nest and going off into the world. If I were to let this opportunity go by, I’d fail on both counts. I couldn’t live with myself, sweetheart. Not with failing those who mean the most to me. I’d be miserable the rest of my days. Oh, I’d hide it from you and the kids. But in my quiet moments, when I was alone, I’d feel a misery I could never shake.”
Philomena was deeply touched. He seldom talked about his deeper feelings. And it wasn’t just him. Men, by their nature, tended to keep their emotions to themselves. “I’m grateful you’re opening up to me.”
“I’d like your blessing.”
“Owen, I just don’t know,” Philomena said uncertainly.
“Please.”
“Owen, don’t do this.”
“I need it. So I’ll be right with myself, come what may.”
“Do you know what you’re asking?” Philomena asked. Because if something terrible happened, it would be on her head as well as his.
“I’m asking the woman I gave my heart to, to give me her support.”
“Oh, Owen.”
“I’ll only ask this once.”
Philomena gazed into his eyes, saw the love and adoration there, and was lost. Her throat constricted and her eyes moistened. She barely got out, “You have my blessing.”
“Thank you,” Owen said, and did another thing he rarely did in public. He kissed her.
God help me, Philomena thought, what have I done?
Chapter 20
The grassland bordering Comanche Creek became riotous with sounds. The loud thunk of axe heads biting deep into trees echoed off the hills. Horses whinnied and stamped. The nearly dozen men and the young woman with them were constantly yelling back and forth.
From his vantage point atop one of the nearby hills, Ebidiah Troutman watched the goings-on with amazement and amusement. The Burnetts and Kursts and Weavers scurried around like so many ants, laboring mightily to prepare their cattle camp. They erected lean-tos to store their packs. They built a corral for their horses out of poles of trimmed saplings. They strung rope to serve as a corral for the longhorns they’d soon go after. They also prepared a lot of small campfires around the perimeter, evidently to use once the cattle were caught.
Ebidiah didn’t see the sense in that, but then he didn’t see much sense in a lot of the antics of his fellow man. It was part of the reason he had so little to do with other human beings.
From an early age, Ebidiah never could understand why so many people busied themselves to death. From the moment they woke up until the moment they turned in, they buzzed around like bees, doing this and doing that, and for what?
All those folks never really did anything of any consequence except keep busy.
Ebidiah first got a sense of the preposterousness of it all when he was a boy and his folks made him do chores. Every day was a repeat of the day before. Get up at dawn, milk the cows and feed the chickens, eat breakfast, shovel the cow manure, spread straw. There were always a thousand and one things that needed doing.
Ebidiah hated it. When he was in his late teens, he struck off on his own and headed west, where he’d heard a man could live as free as he pleased, with no one to tell him to do this or that. When he learned of a man organizing a trapping brigade, he signed on.
The trapping life suited him. He checked his traps, collected any beaver that were caught and skinned them for their hides, and generally had the rest of his time to himself.
Not that the work was easy. Sometimes the water was so cold, his fingers and toes half-froze. And setting the traps took some doing. So did toting those dead beaver. But all in all, the work fit him down to his marrow. Which was why he left the brigade and became a free trapper, and had been trapping ever since.
When beaver hats went out of fashion and the beaver tra
de fell off, Ebidiah turned to other critters. For long decades he’d roamed the Rocky Mountains, trapping anything with a pelt that would put money in his poke. He wasn’t a fanatic about it, though. He trapped enough to get by, and that was all. Not like some trappers who went on sprees and trapped entire regions out.
In his wanderings, he’d traveled the length and breadth of the Rockies. From up near Canada, clear down to the Davis Mountains in west Texas. He’d ended up in Texas late in life, having drifted further and further south each year. Part of it had to do with his endless quest for furs. More of it had to do with his aching joints and muscles.
Ebidiah was pushing ninety. He was spry for his age, and got around fine, and his mind hadn’t given out on him like it did with some. But he felt his years with every breath he took. Cold weather made it even worse, which was why he’d left the mountains for the hill country where it was warmer. He still trapped, and sold the hides to settlers like Mrs. Burnett and Mrs. Weaver.
He’d never sold anything to the Kursts.
Ebidiah had gone to their homestead once to introduce himself. He’d brought Sarabell and his pelts, thinking he might sell a few.
Gareth Kurst rudely informed him that the family skinned its own hides and wouldn’t be buying any from an “old goat” like him. The oldest boy, Harland, had opened one of Ebidiah’s packs, “to see what this old buzzard has,” as Harland put it, and then played catch with a couple of his brothers, tossing a marten fur back and forth and not letting Ebidiah have it until their pa told them to give it back. And the daughter, Lorette, had sashayed up to him, pulled at his beard, and teased him about his wrinkles.
It was all Ebidiah could do not to shoot one of them. When he left, he’d vowed that he’d never set foot on their place again. He did see various Kursts now and then, when they were out hunting and such, always from a distance. He went the other way. They were trouble, that bunch.
And now Owen Burnett and Jasper Weaver were partners with those troublemakers in the cattle enterprise.
Ebidiah liked Owen. The man was as honest as the year was long, and never spoke ill of another soul. Ebidiah respected that.
He didn’t have much respect for Jasper Weaver. Jasper was a drunkard. Not the loud, brawling kind, but the sort who drank in secret, or at least in the privacy of his own home, and never imposed on anyone else.
What drove Jasper to drink, Ebidiah couldn’t say. Usually it was a tragedy of some kind. But as far as he knew, Jasper had been spared any deep sorrows. Maybe the wife had something to do with it. Or maybe Jasper drank because he liked it.
A shout from below put an end to Ebidiah’s musing. Extending his spyglass, he pressed it to his right eye and the scene below came into sharp focus. It was as if he was right there; he could see the sweat on their brows, the dust on their clothes.
The one who had shouted was Reuben, Jasper’s boy. Reuben was pointing to the north and saying something, and his pa and Gareth and Owen were hurrying over.
Ebidiah raised his telescope to the hill the boy was pointing at and swept the slopes. He spotted a few longhorns and a couple of deer but nothing to account for the boy’s shout.
The sound of hooves drew Ebidiah’s attention. Harland and Thaxter Kurst and Luke Burnett had climbed on their horses and were riding to the north. They had their rifles out.
Ebidiah wondered if Reuben had seen a bear or a mountain lion. Settlers were always spooked by meat-eaters even though bears and the like hardly ever attacked people.
He did more scanning with his spyglass and was about convinced that they were making a fuss over nothing when movement caught his eye. Something fast, that went from cover to cover. Centering the spyglass, he cussed in surprise. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was.
It had been a spell since any of their kind were seen in those parts, and it didn’t bode well for the would-be cattle wranglers.
For high up on the other hill was a Comanche warrior. He had stopped moving and hunkered to watch the settlers.
And his face was painted for war.
Chapter 21
Luke Burnett, his hand on his Remington, rode with Harland and Thaxter Kurst toward where Reuben Weaver claimed he’d seen an Indian.
The Kurst boys weren’t happy about having to go up the hill to check.
“An Injun, my ass,” Thaxter complained. “Most likely it was a deer and we’re wasting our time.”
“Pa said to have a look, so we’ll have a look,” Harland replied.
“You know and I know that Reuben Weaver is scared of his own shadow,” Thaxter said. “He thought he saw a mountain lion two days ago, but it was only a danged squirrel.”
“He’ll be of help when we round up the cattle,” Harland said.
“Not much.”
Luke had never met a family that bickered as much as the Kursts. They argued about everything, every hour of the day. He’d come to suspect, as strange as it seemed, that they liked to spat. “I saw an Indian about ten days ago, remember?” he reminded them.
“You say you did,” Thaxter said over his shoulder. “But your pa was right there with you, and he didn’t.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Luke demanded.
Before Thaxter could respond, Harland called back to him, “Don’t forget what pa told us about getting along.”
Frowning, Thaxter glared at Luke. “No, I wasn’t calling you no liar. But our eyes can play tricks on us. Maybe you saw a Comanche and maybe you didn’t.”
“I did, damn you,” Luke said, controlling his anger with an effort.
“Hush, the both of you,” Harland said.
Luke rose in the stirrups to see ahead. They were making so much noise, any Comanche would be long gone. Unless it was a war party, out to count coup. From what he understood, warriors proved their courage by striking or killing an enemy. He wasn’t sure if it applied to all tribes, but the word on the Texas frontier was that the Comanches did.
Suddenly stones rattled from under the hooves of Thaxter’s mount, and his horse slipped. Smacking it, Thaxter cussed.
That was another thing Luke didn’t like about the Kursts. They were forever cussing. His folks had raised him to keep a civil tongue, especially around others. He couldn’t recall ever hearing his ma swear, although his pa had a few times.
“There’s the spot,” Harland called out.
They were nearing a patch of brush below a large boulder, which was where Reuben claimed he’d seen an Indian. Harland slowed, and with one hand, pressed his rifle to his shoulder.
Thaxter drew his Colt.
Luke relied on his Remington rather than his rifle. He was better with a six-gun, especially up close. Drawing rein, he said, “I’ll cover you while you investigate.”
“Investigate, hell,” Harland said. “It would be a fool’s proposition to go into that thicket.”
“Don’t look at me,” Thaxter said. “I wasn’t born stupid.”
That made no kind of sense that Luke could see. “One of us should check,” he insisted.
“Be our guest,” Harland said.
“Serves you right if you get your throat slit,” Thaxter said. He didn’t sound upset at the prospect.
“All three of us should go in,” Luke proposed. They had to find out if Reuben had in fact seen an Indian.
“It was your idea,” Harland said. “We’ll cover you.”
Thaxter snickered.
Reluctantly, Luke climbed down. “If this is how you are with one hostile, how will you be with a whole war party?”
“We’ll do our part, don’t you worry,” Harland said gruffly.
Thumbing back the Remington’s hammer, Luke crept into the heavy tangle of juniper and other growth. Except for the buzzing of a bee, all was still. He crept higher, wincing when a leaf crunched under his left boot.
Luke had a feeling
that unseen eyes were on him. His mouth went dry as he warily advanced. He searched for tracks even though the ground was so hard, a longhorn wouldn’t leave any.
“You all right in there?” Harland yelled, and Thaxter laughed.
Luke didn’t see what was so funny. The warrior could ambush him at any moment. Skirting a trunk, he bent as low as he could without lying flat, and looked for sign. The quiet mocked him. “I know you’re there,” he bluffed. “Show yourself.”
“As if Comanches speak our tongue,” Thaxter said in ridicule.
Luke had heard of some who did. They were exceptions rather than the rule, just as whites fluent in the Comanche tongue were as rare as hen’s teeth. He’d never had any interest in learning another language, not even Spanish, which was spoken all along the border country.
The sense that he was being watched grew stronger.
Luke became molasses, alert for the slightest sound, or anything else out of the ordinary.
“You’re taking long enough,” Harland said. “What’s going on in there? We can’t see you.”
“He’s taken up knitting,” Thaxter said.
Luke would never tell them, but his ma had, in fact, taught him how. The basics, anyway. She thought it was something a man should know. “For when you’re older, and if you should find yourself on your own,” was how she justified it. Cooking, ironing, he could do it all. So could Sam.
“Did you see that?” Harland whispered.
“See what?” Luke had let himself become distracted. He glanced about but saw only plants, and up a short way, the boulder. “See what?” he asked again when Harland didn’t answer.
“Off to your left,” Harland said.
All Luke saw were oaks and high grass. He moved closer. The grass was undisturbed; if a grown man had passed through it, the blades would be bent or flattened. “Nothing.”
“Come on back, then,” Harland said.
Luke was glad to. Once clear of the thicket, he stood and shook his head. “Not a sign anywhere.”
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