by Steve Hayes
A big, slab-shouldered, beetle-browed man in a leather apron stood by the forge, hammering a glowing red-hot horseshoe into shape atop an anvil. He didn’t notice Gabriel for a few moments; when he did, he doused the horseshoe in a bucket of water, causing a sizzling hiss, and nodded politely. ‘Afternoon, mister. What can I do for you?’
‘Need to buy a wagon an’ a team.’
‘Sorry. I can’t help you.’
Gabriel nodded his thanks and turned to leave.
‘How long you need it for, mister?’
‘Long as it takes to carry a coffin from here to Santa Rosa an’ back.’
‘Three maybe four days, huh?’
‘’Bout.’
The blacksmith sized Gabriel up. He found the tall man’s uncanny ice-blue eyes unnerving, but admired the integrity he saw shining in them and decided to trust him. ‘Would you agree to leave a deposit if’n I rented you mine?’
‘Have to see it first.’
‘Help yourself.’ The blacksmith pointed past the old windmill to the stable. Then picking up his tongs, he grabbed the horseshoe and plunged it into the fire.
Gabriel returned to the stable and saw an old freight wagon standing in one corner. It had seen better days but was still usable. He then checked out the two big rawboned horses tied up in the stalls. In contrast to the Morgan, both were docile and friendly and thrust their heads out to Gabriel so he could rub their soft velvety muzzles.
‘Well?’ the blacksmith said when Gabriel rejoined him.
‘It’ll do. How much per day not countin’ tonight?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Ten’s my limit. An’ I need you to stall and grain my horse for the night, too.’
The blacksmith wiped his nose on the back of his hairy, meaty forearm before nodding. ‘That comes to forty dollars plus a hundred for the deposit – just in case you run into trouble an’ don’t come back.’
‘What kind of trouble might that be, y’think?’
‘That ain’t for me to say, mister. I’m just sayin’ in case.’
Gabriel eyed the big man suspiciously. ‘Ever seen me before?’
‘Not that I recall. But when it comes to faces, I got me a memory worse than a dead frog. Can ask my wife. Folks come in and out of here all the time an’ I never remember ’em.’
‘Think you’ll remember me?’
‘Mister, second you walk out that door, I won’t only forget what you look like but I’ll swear you weren’t ever here.’
Satisfied, Gabriel reached inside his duster, revealing the much-used, black-gripped Peacemaker on his hip, and counted out the money from his money belt. ‘Be obliged if you’d have the team hitched an’ ready to go by sunup. Oh, an’ I’ll need drinkin’ water for two.’
The blacksmith nodded and returned to his hammering.
At the station, two wranglers stood by the boxcar watching as Raven led Brandy down the ramp. The irascible black stallion gave her no trouble until he reached the platform. But as she started to lead him away, he suddenly whirled around and tried to cow-kick the closest wrangler.
‘Don’t mind him,’ she said as both men jumped back. ‘He’s just funnin’ with you. And you,’ she told the Morgan, ‘behave yourself!’ She led Brandy to the hitch-rail alongside the depot and looped the reins around the bar. Then she re-entered the boxcar, reappearing a few moments later with Gabriel’s saddle on her back.
‘Here, let me give you a hand, miss.’ The younger of the two wranglers, a short bandy-legged redhead with a knife scar whitening his tanned cheek, reached to take the saddle from Raven.
She stepped around him. ‘Mister, the day I can’t carry a saddle is the day I get me a rockin’ chair.’ Knees buckling under the weight, she carried the saddle to the hitch-rail, dropped it and caught her breath.
The two wranglers closed in on her. Though they were smiling there was something menacing about their lurking presence.
‘Fine looking piece of horseflesh,’ the old wrangler drawled. In spite of his grimy appearance he had a cultured southern accent and the saddle-worn pants tucked in his boots were Confederate gray. ‘How much you reckon your Pa wants for him?’
‘Brandy isn’t for sale.’
‘Oughtn’t your Pa decide that?’
‘He’d tell you the same,’ Raven said. Suddenly, she felt threatened by the men and wished she wasn’t alone. ‘Brandy’s not for sale. Not now. Not ever.’
The young wrangler with the scar thrust his face into Raven’s. ‘Mighty full of yourself for a young’un, ain’t you?’
Raven tried to step back but found herself trapped against the tie-rail, ‘You better leave me alone,’ she said defiantly, ‘or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Yeah? An’ just how will I be sorry? You goin’ to put me across your knee and give me a tannin’?’
‘If she doesn’t, mister, reckon I will.’
Both wranglers whirled around and saw Gabriel standing behind them. His tight-lipped smile was more frightening than any angry scowl.
‘Go ahead,’ said the young wrangler. He clenched his fists, ready to fight. ‘See what it gets you.’
Gabriel’s right hand shot out with startling quickness. Clamping his forefinger and middle finger on the young wrangler’s nose, he twisted hard, first right, then left.
The young wrangler yelped and hopped around, trying to break free. Pain made his eyes water. And when Gabriel finally let him go, he cursed and went for his gun.
Again Gabriel’s hand shot out, only this time it was balled into a fist. The blow struck the young wrangler on the chin. Eyes glazed, he dropped like a felled tree, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
Gabriel turned to the old wrangler. For a long, quiet moment the two men sized each other up. Then the older man smiled, easing the tension.
‘I’m obliged to you, brother, for not killing him,’ he drawled. ‘Little Bill’s a hothead an’ oft-times acts without thinking, but he doesn’t mean any real harm by it.’
‘Ignorance is a poor excuse,’ Gabriel said coldly. ‘Might be wise if you taught your friend some manners when he wakes up.’
‘I’ll be sure and do that, sir. I surely will.’ The old wrangler tipped his hat to Raven. ‘Hope you’ll accept my apologies for Little Bill’s behavior, sister.’ When she didn’t reply but continued to glare at him, he helped the still-groggy young wrangler to his feet and led him away.
‘You all right?’ Gabriel asked her.
Hoping he didn’t notice she was shaking, Raven nodded. ‘I could’ve handled ’em, you know. Don’t think I couldn’t.’
‘Thought never crossed my mind, scout.’
Unable to tell if he was serious or needling her, she said: ‘Did you get a wagon?’
‘Yep. Talked to the Station Agent, too. Said we can leave the coffin here till mornin’,’ he indicated a tool shed beside the stationhouse.
Raven looked at the shed and then at the coffin. The pale pine wood reflected the yellow glare of the dying sun. Tears welled up in her big black eyes as she thought of her mother lying cold, stiff and lifeless inside the simple box and she turned away so Gabriel wouldn’t see them.
‘Think it’ll be safe there?’
‘Reckon so. Door’s locked at night. But if you ain’t happy about leavin’ it, I’ll get the wagon an’ we’ll see if there’s an undertaker in town.’
‘N-No … I’m sure it’ll be all right.’
Admiring her grit, Gabriel left her rubbing the Morgan’s proudly arched neck and entered the depot. Returning a few minutes later, he walked to the tie-rail, fastened their carpetbag to the horn and picked up his saddle.
Instantly the Morgan swung its head around and took a nip at him.
Gabriel jumped back, cursing, barely avoiding the stallion’s teeth. He then slapped the Morgan in the head with his hat so that it faced front, and threw the saddle over its back. Brandy arched his rump, as if ready to buck.
‘Try it,’ Gabriel warned the horse. ‘An’ I swea
r by God’s little acorns I’ll sell you for glue moment we reach Santa Rosa.’
Man and horse glared at each other, neither willing to back down.
‘Good-God-awmighty,’ Raven grumbled, tears forgotten. ‘You two are worse’n tomcats in breeding season. Ain’t you never gonna get along?’
Reaching under the Morgan’s belly, she grasped the dangling cinch strap, slipped it through the ring and pulled it tight. Next she untied the reins, handed them to Gabriel, waited for him to mount and then let him pull her up behind him.
They rode this way into town. People walking along the planked sidewalks or riding on passing buckboards gave them curious looks as they trotted by. But no one seemed to recognize Gabriel or be alarmed by his presence and after cursory glances they went on about their business.
Gabriel searched their faces, one hand tucked inside his duster ready to draw his Colt if anyone recognized him. When they didn’t, he realized luck was still with him. But he still couldn’t relax. Not even when they reached the Commercial Hotel without incident.
Dismounting, Gabriel went to help Raven down. But she ignored his outstretched hands and jumped off by herself. He smiled, amused by her independence, and looped the Morgan’s reins over the hotel hitch-rail.
‘Promise me something,’ she said.
‘Have to hear what it is first.’
‘You won’t make me take no bath.’
‘What would I do that for?’
‘’Cause I’m a girl and girls are supposed to smell pretty.’
‘No fear of that.’
‘Fear of what?’
‘Folks mistakin’ you for a girl.’
From anyone else, Raven would have considered that a compliment. But the way Gabriel said it, irked her. ‘Now who’s on the prod?’
He chuckled, untied the carpetbag from the saddle horn and led her into the large, two-story, brick-faced hotel.
The lobby was clean, comfortably furnished and smelled of cigars. Navaho rugs added color to the hardwood floor, southwest landscapes adorned the walls and the north-side windows enabled guests to enjoy a view of the Harvey House, railroad tracks and majestic Cooke’s Peak. It was cooler inside than out, primarily because of the big ceiling fan that swirled the air around and kept the flies from settling on the guests in the lobby. Some were talking, others smoking or reading newspapers, but all stopped what they were doing as Gabriel and Raven entered, their eyes following them to the front desk.
‘Need a room for the night,’ Gabriel told the clerk.
The short, balding, bespectacled clerk tucked his thumbs into his gray pinstriped vest and frowned disapprovingly at Raven. ‘The boy,’ he asked. ‘Might he be a kin of yours, sir?’
‘He’s a she,’ Gabriel said quietly. ‘An’ I’m her legal guardian.’
The clerk bristled. ‘I’m afraid the hotel has strict rules about breeds, sir.’
‘We’ll need only one bed,’ Gabriel said as if the clerk hadn’t spoken. ‘Floor’s more to my likin’.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me, sir. We don’t allow half-bree—’
He broke off, alarmed, as Gabriel reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels of his suit, lifting him off his feet.
‘Mister, we’ve come a far piece … all the way from Old Calico in fact, just to bury her mother.’ Gabriel paused, noticing as he did that everyone in the lobby was now staring in shocked silence. ‘It’s a journey that saddens the heart an’ crushes the spirit. On top of that we’re hot an’ tired an’ mighty close to irritable. So hand me the keys to our room an’ I’ll forget you’re a pimply, sawed-off jackass an’ not gut you from neck to gizzard.’
He released the startled clerk, the movement opening his duster to reveal the bone-handled skinning knife hanging from his belt. The clerk stumbled back, tripped over his feet and had to grasp the desk to steady himself. Eyes bugged with fear, he quickly grabbed a key from one of the pigeon holes and handed it to Gabriel.
‘T-Two eighteen, sir. Top of the stairs and to your right.’
‘’Bliged,’ said Gabriel, signing the register.
Raven, who had never heard Gabriel utter more than a few words at one time, recovered from her surprise and glared at the desk clerk.
‘I’ll need hot water for a bath,’ she said gruffly. ‘Lots of hot water. An’ soap too. Par-fumed kind. That clear, mister?’
‘V-Very clear, miss. I’ll have it brought straight up.’ Badly shaken, he watched as Gabriel, carpetbag in hand, guided Raven toward the stairs.
‘Neck to gizzard?’ she giggled as they climbed up to the second floor. ‘Good-God-awmighty, when’d you start talking like Jim Bridger?’
‘’Bout the same time you started takin’ baths,’ Gabriel said. ‘Now move along smartly, scout. I once wintered with an ol’ griz’ sow didn’t smell as ripe as you.’
CHAPTER THREE
Later, while Raven was taking her bath, Gabriel lit a cigar, left the hotel, crossed the dirt, lamp-lit street and entered Los Gatos, a small cantina.
Inside, it was dark, dingy and reeked of chili and refried beans. Gabriel checked out the two cattlemen drinking at the bar, sensed they’d be no trouble and surveyed the rest of the dimly lit room. His gaze settled on a man playing solitaire at a rear table. The only light back there was what filtered out of the kitchen. It wasn’t enough to read by and Gabriel was surprised that the man could see his cards. Suspicious, he tried to make out the man’s face but it was hidden beneath the wide brim of his gray felt hat. It was not the everyday Stetson but like the hats worn by plantation owners in the Deep South. The rest of the man was in shadow.
Feeling a twinge of uneasiness, Gabriel decided to keep an eye on him. Ordering a bottle of rye, he took it and a glass to a corner table. As he sat with his back to the wall, he looked toward the rear and realized the man had left. Guessing he must have ducked out through the kitchen, Gabriel rose and went to the table. The cards lay as the man had left them; the game still in progress. Gabriel absently put an eight of spades on a nine of hearts and then stuck his head in the kitchen.
A lumpy, middle-aged Mexican woman in a grease-stained white dress was stirring a kettle of chili on the stove. Behind her, the back door was open. Gabriel hurried to it and looked out. The alley was quiet, dark and empty.
Returning to the woman, Gabriel asked her in Spanish if she knew the man who had just run out. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her beefy forearm, she shrugged fatly and shook her head.
‘Ever seen him before, señora?’
Again the woman shook her head.
Thanking her, Gabriel returned to the bar and asked the balding, fat-faced Mexican barkeep if he knew who the card player was. The barkeep didn’t. Nor did he remember what the man looked like. But he did remember that he was a gringo, a very small gringo, who smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes and wore a strange looking hat.
‘A gambler, maybe?’
‘It is possible, señor.’
One of the cattlemen at the bar turned to Gabriel. ‘Don’t mean to stick my nose in, mister, but the fella you’re talkin’ about was no gambler.’
‘Go on.’
‘Me’n my partner Cal, here, went over an’ asked him if he’d like to play a few hands of stud. Fella didn’t even have the courtesy to look up. Just went on playin’ Klondike like we weren’t standin’ there. Made me plenty sore, I can tell you. But before I could call him on it, Cal pulled me away.’
‘Lucky for you I did,’ said the other cattleman, ‘or you’d be full of holes.’ He turned to Gabriel, adding: ‘This hombre had two guns, tied low like a shootist. Real fancy jobs. Nickel-plated with shiny white grips – kind you see in a Wild West show.’
Gabriel felt another twinge of uneasiness. ‘Happen to recall what color his hair was?’
‘Sorry, friend. He never took off his hat.’ The cattlemen went back to their whiskey and conversation.
Returning to his table, Gabriel poured himself a drink, gulped ha
lf of it down then sat there watching the door. He sensed trouble was approaching and under the table kept one hand on his Colt.
He didn’t have long to wait. He’d barely finished his drink when Sheriff Cobb entered. The veteran lawman was unarmed but with him was a gangling young deputy holding a Colt 12-gauge side-by-side shotgun.
A short hard-bellied man, hatless, with iron-gray hair, a weathered, intelligent face and drooping gray mustaches, the sheriff motioned for the deputy to remain by the door and then confronted Gabriel.
‘Mind if I sit down, Mr Jennings?’
Gabriel tensed. Anyone who called him that knew he was an outlaw. And if the person was a lawman, it could lead to a rope. For a moment he considered shooting the deputy before the deputy could shoot him; but remembering his obligation to Ingrid and Raven, he restrained himself and motioned for the sheriff to sit. The lawman obeyed, making sure his movements were slow and non-threatening. Gabriel, ready to slap leather at any instant, signaled to the barkeep to bring them another glass.
The barkeep obeyed.
Neither Gabriel nor the sheriff moved, even blinked, until the barkeep returned behind the bar. Then Sheriff Cobb poured himself a drink, raised the glass in silent toast and downed it.
‘First thing I want to say, son, is I’m not lookin’ for trouble.’
‘Makes two of us.’
‘Glad to hear that. Maybe now you can quit nursin’ your iron.’
‘Not till your deputy, there, lowers his thunder-gun.’
‘Reasonable.’ The sheriff nodded at the deputy, who lowered his side-by-side.
Gabriel brought his hand up and laid it beside his other hand on the table. The two men studied each other like wary Alpha wolves. Gradually the tension between them lessened, but it still crackled like high voltage.
Sheriff Cobb poured himself another shot, grimacing as the cheap whiskey burned his throat. ‘’Cording to Mr Dunbar, the station agent, you’re here to bury kin.’
‘Not here. Outside Santa Rosa.’
‘Please accept my deepest condolences.’
Gabriel nodded his thanks but said nothing.
‘That means you’ll be movin’ on in the morning?’