Scarlet Sunset, Silver Nights

by Leigh Greenwood

  “I don’t know,” Pamela said, trying to feign indifference. “He’s been angry and withdrawn all day.”

  “You two didn’t have a fight, did you?”

  “I do not fight!” Pamela stated indignantly. “It’s merely that we haven’t agreed on anything since he got here.”

  “Did you try to find out what got under his skin?”

  “Several times, but his response has been quite similar to what you just saw.”

  “Something’s sure biting him hard. Wish I knew what.”

  “Don’t waste your time on him. He’s not worth it.”

  “You can fool yourself if you want to, but you can’t fool me. That man has gotten to you like nobody I ever saw, not even your precious Frederick. Don’t tell me you don’t care.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you, but I don’t,” Pamela snapped and then galloped off.

  “Looks like we got a whole lot more to do than brand calves,” Gaddy said to his horse. “We got some mighty unhappy folks along with us this time.”

  The panorama of the desert lay before him, but it was a different desert from the one he had walked through. This land was also harsh and arid, but it bristled with life. Prickly pear cactus, pinion juniper, and mesquite only served to distract the eye from the numerous plants and grasses which enabled it to support a large number of cattle. On one side lay the Blue River, the narrow ribbon of life which made the desert habitable. On the other, mountain ridges covered in oak, pine, juniper, cedar, and spruce rose abruptly from the desert floor only to run back to the mountains in the distance. Traces of snow, the life-giving force of this land, still lay on its peaks.

  Slade tried to block the sound of the badly sung hymn from his ears, but he couldn’t. One part of him struggled to hear just as much as the other part struggled to block it out. He walked through the scrub growth kicking the light grey soil with his feet, snapping twigs off greasewood, all the while trying to calm his anger. All that was over and done with. Pamela’s harmless service didn’t give him a reason to dredge it up again.

  But try as he might he couldn’t forget the years of going to church with his mother. He didn’t mind church. Actually, he liked some of it quite a bit. For years his mother and the preacher had lectured him about his duty, about the punishment God would visit on those wicked enough to depart from his ways. More than once they had scared him into doing things he didn’t want to. Later, they coerced him with threats. Through it all, they drummed into his head the necessity of doing one’s duty, honoring one’s promises, no matter what.

  Then his mother up and left them, and he swore he’d never set foot in church again.

  What about her duty to her son? What about her vows to her husband? What about her responsibility to the family? He couldn’t understand why everybody praised her for having the courage to leave his father. And what about the preacher? He kept telling everybody about their duty to save lost souls—actually used it as an excuse to butt into people’s lives—kept telling them how Christ left the ninety-and-nine to save the one lost sheep. But this same man refused to come to his father when he was dying. Said he wasn’t worth praying over.

  Pamela could have her services if she wanted, but he’d be damned if he’d have anything to do with them.

  But even though he kept so far away he was unable to hear what she said, he drew close enough to know the moment the service ended. He came striding into the center of the group before they could disperse.

  “You don’t know me,” he began brusquely, “but I’ve been hired to take you through this roundup. If you’ve got any questions about my right to be here, take them up with Miss White. If you’ve got any questions about my ability to do the job, you can take those up with me.” He glanced around the group. There were a few sidelong glances, but no one seemed disposed to argue.

  “I’ve got a few rules I want you to remember. They may not seem very important to you now, but they could be the difference between coming through with a whole skin or getting shot to pieces. First, nobody goes anywhere alone. I don’t care if it’s just behind a bush. I want two of you together at all times. Any questions?” There was an undercurrent of curiosity but no objections.

  “Second, don’t let anybody with a gun get behind you. You may end up eating a lot of dust, but nobody can shoot you in the back if they’re in front of you.”

  “You know my objections to firearms,” Pamela stated as she jumped to her feet. Her eyes swept over the crew then came to rest defiantly on Slade. “They never solve anything. Besides, you could be the one to get shot.”

  “That was a fine speech, Miss White,” Slade said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “And you delivered it with all the fire and passion of a true believer while still keeping to the decorous behavior expected of a lady. We truly thank you for your concern for our safety.”

  “How dare you mock me, Slade Morgan,” Pamela hissed in an undervoice. “You knew all along I didn’t want my crew to carry guns. You did this intentionally.”

  The crew looked from Slade to Pamela, and Pamela was dismayed to notice that her objection had made them uneasy rather than give them a feeling of relief.

  “I respect Miss White’s feeling,” Slade responded, “but she has given me complete authority for the duration of this roundup. Additionally, she has agreed to support every decision I make. Isn’t that true. Miss White?”

  Despite her distaste for guns, Pamela would have cheerfully shot him with the first gun she got her hands on. He had used her own words to support his decision to have the men wear guns. She was too furious, too boiling angry at his duplicity to speak. She could only nod.

  “She also agreed that I could not be fired until after the roundup was over. Isn’t that true as well, Miss White?”

  “Yes, damn you,” Pamela hissed too softly for anyone to hear. They only saw her lips move and her head nod.

  “I regret to say that I see the necessity for every man to be armed and alert at all times. Is that understood?”

  Pamela could have cursed at the alacrity with which the men agreed with Slade.

  “I want you to keep your eyes open. I want you to know everything everybody does. Don’t start any fights, and don’t cet drawn into any arguments. You see a problem, come to me. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I just have one more rule, but it’s the most important of all. Keep your eyes on Miss White. I don’t care how you work it out, but I want one of you detailed to stay with her at all times. If anything happens to her, the creeks will flow with blood.”

  “There’s no need to employ bad theatrics,” Pamela said, unable to restrain herself any longer. “I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would want to harm me.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Slade said, “but maybe you’ve forgotten that as long as your father is away, you’re the owner of the Bar Double-B. If anything were to happen to you, your range would be up for grabs.”

  Pamela started to protest that she’d never heard anything so foolish in her life, but the expressions on the faces of her men stopped her. She didn’t know if Slade’s arguments had convinced them of the danger to her or whether they already agreed with him, but they clearly intended to keep her under surveillance for the duration of the roundup whether she liked it or not.

  “You’re just alarming everyone unnecessarily,” she said, “trying to get the men to do something they don’t want to do.”

  “Are you willing to fight for Miss White?” Slade asked the crew.

  “I’ll fight ‘til there ain’t nobody left to fight,” one young man promised. “Ain’t nobody hurting her and getting away with it.”

  “We already got a score to settle for Dave and Jody,” a second man added.

  “Yeah,” assented a third, “somebody’s gonna eat lead.”

  The enthusiasm with which they vowed to back her alarmed Pamela, but she refused to change her position.

  “I swear I wouldn’t have ordered the men to go armed if I didn�
��t believe you were in danger,” Slade said apologetically, hoping to calm Pamela’s anger. “In fact, I only agreed to your coming along because I couldn’t protect you at the ranch.”

  “You didn’t agree.” Pamela snapped, too angry to care what she said. “You made me furious knowing I would insist upon coming which is exactly what you wanted me to do!”

  Slade grinned unabashedly. “You’re right. This is no place for a woman, especially one who knows nothing about cows.”

  “I promise to stay out of your way,” she said furiously. “And I do know something about cows.” With that, she turned and marched off to her wagon. After the coolness of the ranch house, the midday sun felt uncomfortably hot.

  “Keep an eye on her,” Slade said to Gaddy. “I’m going to take a look around.”

  Pamela watched him go, a tall man sitting tall in the saddle, and she felt bereft. Something about that man made her feel more alive, more secure, more vibrant than ever before. Dear God, why did it have to be him?

  Chapter 11

  The half dozen cooking fires appeared as circles of wavering light. Spangled with intermittent sparks from popping wood, they illuminated the night, throwing into relief the dark humps of chuck wagons and the smaller shadows of men and horses. The soft murmur of voices, an occasional shout of greeting, the clank of pots, the scraping of forks against tin plates, the jingle of spurs, the creak of saddle leather, the muffled thud of horses stamping their feet to drive away the flies or blowing through their nostrils blended into a soothing backdrop of friendly sound. The enticing aromas of baked beans, fried ham, brewing coffee, and the sharp tang of tobacco filled the air. Even the faint taste of dust added a bit of necessary color.

  It was roundup time.

  The crews of the six ranches participating in the roundup drifted among the chuck wagons. Because the dry, clean, cloudless air couldn’t hold heat and the temperature had plummeted fifty degrees from the daytime high, they clustered around the camp fires as they renewed old acquaintances, swapped stories, and generally tried to be sociable. Most of them knew each other—they had worked together at one time or another—but they now remained fiercely loyal to their own brand. They all knew trouble could explode at any minute. Subtly, even though they may not have been aware of it, they were also taking each other’s measure.

  Pamela sat near the center of the encampment eating her dinner, uncomfortably placed between Dave Bagshot and Mongo Shepherd. She struggled to maintain an appearance of polite interest in the conversation between the two men, but thoughts of Slade occupied her mind. He had gone off shortly after they arrived. Night had fallen and he hadn’t returned. Pamela couldn’t help but worry about him. Besides, his shoulder still troubled him a good deal. He shouldn’t try to stay in the saddle for so long.

  “I know there’s no excuse for the way I acted the other day,” Mongo was saying to her, “but I worry about you. I know you feel safe in that valley of yours, but I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me protect you.”

  “I’ll be fine until Dad returns,” Pamela told him, only half listening to him.

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t stay back at the ranch,” Mongo continued. “This is a hot, dirty job. I wouldn’t let my wife come along. A roundup is no place for a lady.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not your wife,” Pamela replied sharply as she got up. Her leg muscles were starting to cramp, she didn’t think she could stand another minute of Mongo’s suffocating attention, and she couldn’t sit around making polite conversation while Slade’s absence had her so worried. “Dad agrees with you,” she said, trying to make her departure seem less rude. “I decided if I didn’t come now, I might never get another chance to see what goes on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in. I understand things start very early in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to get up,” Mongo said. “There’s not much to see until the boys start drifting the cows in.”

  Pamela repressed a shudder at the thought of so many cows in one place “I want to see everything.” she said and turned toward her wagon. She had just placed her foot on the steps when Slade stepped out of the shadows.

  “Did you and Mongo make up? Won’t that be a little awkward when Frederick arrives?”

  Pamela gasped and jumped. “You scared me nearly half to death,” she said, once her heart slowed down enough for her to speak. “What do you mean sneaking up on me out of the dark! You could have been shot by one of these men you’ve armed.”

  “I don’t want Mongo to know I’m here.”

  “You can’t hide for long,” Pamela said. She wondered if Slade could be afraid of Mongo. No, that couldn’t be it. He would have won the fight if he hadn’t been injured.

  “Tomorrow morning is soon enough. I don’t want to give him time to change his plans.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so determined to make me believe Mongo wants to steal our range. You’re wrong, you know. He spent half of dinner apologizing for the way he behaved the other day. He even invited Dad and me to town for a visit after the roundup.”

  “Let’s not waste our time together talking about Mongo,” Slade said. He took Pamela by the elbow and guided her around the end of the wagon. “He’ll show his colors soon enough. There’s something else I want you to see.”

  “What?” Pamela demanded warily. “You’re not going to surprise me with something terrible are you? I’m not particularly comfortable in the dark.”

  “A man soon learns the dark can be his friend.”

  “You already told me about your love of moonlight, but the dark can work two ways. Besides, I don’t know that I want to talk with you, not after the underhanded things you’ve done to me.”

  “I promise I won’t do a single thing without asking you first.”

  Pamela couldn’t be entirely sure she believed him, but even if she did, she wasn’t sure she could trust herself alone with him. Slade had an unaccountable way of making her unsure of her own mind.

  “It’s not proper for a lady to run off in the dark.”

  “We’ve got more than fifty chaperons,” Slade pointed out.

  “And every one of them is studiously looking the other way.”

  “Everybody expects the boss and her foreman to have to talk sometimes, private like, so they can make plans.”

  “Okay, but the moment you start talking about anything else, I’m heading straight back to camp.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “No,” she replied emphatically. She didn’t tell him she didn’t trust herself either.

  The main camp was situated on a creek which provided water for cooking and washing. They walked in silence through a grove of cottonwoods along the small stream as it bubbled merrily with water from the spring run-off—it would be a dry stream bed by late summer—until they came to a rise. Slade helped her climb over the rocks until they came to the top.

  “Look out there. What do you see?”

  In the distance Pamela could see ridges of mountains rising out of the desert, low ridges running back into mightier ridges that ran back to the spine of the Mazatzal mountains. Two of those ridges enclosed her valley. Before it, bathed in the pale light of the moon, lay the open range. Some people called it desert, but in reality it encompassed a rich strip of land lying between the mountain valleys and the open desert, land watered by infrequent rains and mountain run-off, land rich with food on which cattle grew fat.

  “Your range reaches as far as you can see,” Slade told her. “It’s the best there is in this part of the country. Will you fight to keep it?”

  “If I must. But I won’t have to. Nobody’s trying to take it away.”

  “I didn’t ask you that. Will you fight with guns or knives or whatever you have? Or will you let it go to the first person who threatens you or your men?”

  Pamela had always thought she was against violence of any kind, so she was thunderstruck by the feeling of fiercely possessive pride that ros
e up in her when she looked at the land stretching before her. She wouldn’t allow anybody to take what was hers. “I’ll fight,” she muttered unwillingly. “I might not want to live in this country, but I refuse to allow anybody to take it from me.”

  “Good. Remember that when you want to disagree with what I’m doing.”

  “Why should you risk your neck for land that isn’t yours?” she asked, suddenly more interested in Slade than in her land. “Why don’t you get on your horse and head for California?”

  “I don’t know myself,” Slade admitted and his eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “I guess I never could resist a challenge. Or a damsel in distress,” he added.

  “Just any damsel?”

  “You know the answer to that,” he said. His voice lost some of its clarity.

  “What I told Dave yesterday is true. I don’t know very much about you. You might give this ‘line’ to every woman you meet.”

  “My past is depressingly free of damsels,” Slade observed dryly. “Besides, what ‘line’ am I giving you?”

  “You know, the poor wandering cowboy without a horse or a place to lay his head.” Pamela’s lips twitched.

  “I suppose I made up the fight and the gunshot wound?”

  “No, they’re real, and that’s what has me confused. Why would anybody risk his life for someone he didn’t know?”

  “Any self-respecting man would protect a woman.”

  “Any man might, but not the way you did it.” Pamela longed to have him say he wanted to protect her, not some nameless representative of the female gender. His habit of referring to her as a member of a large, formless group piqued her.

  Slade cast her a questioning glance. She found it hard to think when he was so close. God, but he was handsome. She felt like a silly school girl for harping on his looks, but she couldn’t help it. Every time she saw him, they just reached out and grabbed her.

  Just like she wanted him to grab her.

  “You acted like you cared about me, not just the fact that I’m a woman,” Pamela said, trying to pull her thoughts back to their conversation. If she let herself think of Slade’s face, she would never make any sense.