Scarlet Sunset, Silver Nights

by Leigh Greenwood

  Pamela sat up in her bed mesmerized by the sound. She had heard many singers in Baltimore, but never had she heard such a voice. And to think it belonged to a common ordinary cowboy. Why, with some training, that man might be able to sing in New York.

  She listened for a while, unable to distinguish most of the words because the tent muffled the consonants, but he seemed to be singing a religious song. That surprised her even more. Even the hands on her ranch couldn’t sing without the help of words and somebody to lead them. But this man kept on singing, going from one song to another with hardly a pause, the quiet power of his voice floating over the desert unhindered.

  Finally Pamela’s curiosity got the better of her. She had no business getting up at night, not in a camp full of men, but she just had to know where those songs were coming from. She had figured out that the cowboy on watch duty was singing to the cows as he circled the herd. Perhaps if she crept softly to the edge of the camp, she could recognize him when he came by.

  But just as Pamela started to climb down from her wagon, one of the men nearby stirred and sat up in his bed. Pamela scrambled back inside.

  “What the hell is going on?” the man demanded. He prodded the sleeper nearest him until he woke up. “What’s all that infernal racket?”

  “Just some fella on guard duty.”

  “I know that, but what’s he doing?”

  “Singing, you fool.”

  “I know he’s singing. I mean what is he singing?”

  “Something I doubt you ever heard before. Them is hymns. Baptist hymns at that. And he’s singing every last verse, too. Apparently our man has had himself inside a church a powerful lot if I’m any judge.”

  “Who the hell is it? Can you make out?”

  “Look’s like that Morgan fella to me, though it don’t seem too likely.”

  “Morgan? He don’t strike me as any church-going fella. Why he’d as soon shoot you as be bothered with you.”

  “No doubt you read your Bible every night.”

  “I do not,” the man declared indignantly. “I ain’t even got one.”

  “Then you ain’t likely to know. The Bible’s full of salty characters. Old Mongo wouldn’t stand a chance against the likes of Nebuchadnezzar or that Sennacherib.”

  “You sure you ain’t cussin’ me?” the cowboy said, sitting up so he could reach his gun.

  “Them’s heathen kings, you fool.”

  “How’d you know all that stuff?”

  “I may be a hell-bound cowhand, but at least my ma brought me up right.”

  Slade! Pamela practically fell back into her bed, too shocked to care if she stubbed her toe or got a splinter. Slade, singing like an opera singer, and singing hymns at that. She could add this to the list of things she didn’t know about him, but for the first time, a discovery pleased her. Slade couldn’t be as cynical as he seemed. More importantly, he probably had nothing in his background to be afraid of. Any man who knew that many hymns, and willingly sang them in front of a lot of tough cowboys, had to have been brought up right.

  He was coming this way. Pamela could hear his voice getting closer. Anxious to identify at least one of the hymns, Pamela stuck her head outside the wagon so she could hear better. But after listening just a few moments, she blushed to the tips of her toes and quickly withdrew her head.

  Slade had changed over to the raunchiest song she had ever heard.

  Pamela’s whole body stiffened when Slade headed toward her. For three days he hadn’t approached her unless she was with someone else. For three days they hadn’t discussed the roundup unless Dave sat next to her. For three whole days he hadn’t spent a single moment alone with her.

  Not once had he smiled at her or stopped by to ask how she got along. He didn’t bring her morning coffee. Neither did his gaze wander in her direction. She knew because she watched him constantly. What else did she have to do while she remained in camp, her heart a lead weight in her chest, her soul eaten alive by the most terrible yearning she had ever experienced?

  More than enough time had passed for her to regret her assumption that jealousy had motivated Slade’s suspicion of Mongo. Compared to the feelings which tormented her now, her yearning to return to Baltimore seemed like a passing fancy.

  Slade had called her a snob. Apparently he had forgotten conceited flirt. There were also a few remarks he could have made about her inability to see the nose in front of her face, but she was just as glad he hadn’t. She’d said them all to herself many times over these last three days.

  What conceit to think all she had to do was speak, and Slade, or any other man, would jump to do her bidding. What arrogance to believe her presence alone could make a man relinquish his every opinion. And what ignorance to assume she could parcel out her emotions while she expected the man to lay his heart at her feet. But most damning of all, what cynicism to suppose Slade’s being a cowboy made him incapable of experiencing the same sensitivity or having the intellect of a man with a more sophisticated upbringing.

  Pamela stopped berating herself abruptly. Slade approached her campfire. She summoned every bit of emotional steel she possessed to suffer through his cold, cynical discourse without falling on her knees and promising to do practically anything if he would just talk to her like he used to.

  She had apologized, but that had made no difference. It might even have made him colder. Everybody knew things were strained between them, and they walked around her on eggshells. She wanted to yell at everybody, to tell them to stop pretending nothing had happened, but that wouldn’t do any good either. Nothing would do any good until Slade forgave her.

  And Pamela admitted she didn’t know when, or if, that would happen. She felt a cold trail of tears run down her cheeks but made no effort to wipe them away. It would be futile. They would just be followed by more.

  A few mornings later a decidedly bleary-eyed cook addressed Pamela over her breakfast.

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to Mr. Morgan about his singing.”

  “Why? He has a perfectly beautiful voice. I can’t imagine why he hasn’t told anybody about it before.” Pamela hoped she didn’t blush. She blushed every time she thought of the song she had heard. She hoped he hadn’t sung it anymore. At least she hadn’t waked up again, so she hadn’t heard it if he had.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is right purty, if you like that kind of singing. Personally, it’s not my favorite, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Surely the hymns aren’t bothering the men?”

  “No, ma’am, it ain’t the hymns. Actually, they’re right soothing. As long as he keeps off the ones about the coming of judgment day, it works pretty much like a lullaby for these fellas. They go right off to sleep thinking they’re at their mama’s knee once again.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s about the songs he sings after he’s done with the hymns.”

  Pamela just knew he would mention those songs. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

  “Most of these boys is real innocents, ma’am. They ain’t been away from home long enough, had money enough, or been around women enough to learn much about sinning. At least not the real important stuff. They shoot each other up now and then and do a little cheating at cards, but they’re no more than innocent babies.”

  “Then Mr. Morgan started singing his songs?”

  “Do you realize, ma’am, that Slade Morgan has taught them more in one of them songs about the weakness of the flesh than they’re likely to learn in a month of Sunday’s by themselves? Why, one of them boys from Mr. Shepherd’s crew, and a real hard case he is too, he told me that he learned things in them songs he never heard tell about before. And he’s been to New Orleans and San Francisco.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You got to talk to him, ma’am.”

  “You want me to stop him from singing those songs?”

  “No. We want him to sing
them first.”

  Pamela couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think of any adequate words.

  “The boys know what’s coming, and there’s not one of them that’ll go to sleep until Mr. Slade comes off duty. Ma’am, them boys are so tired from staying up to wait for them songs, they’d be liable to shoot themselves if they was to draw their guns. I don’t know how half of them stays on a horse. You ain’t never seen such a pitiful sight as them boys crawling out of their beds after a night of songs telling them about things that would make a Persian blush. Mr. Slade can spend the day catching up on his sleep if he likes, but them boys are so tired they’re liable to try to put a saddle on a steer instead of their horse.”

  “I understand, Angus. I will speak to Mr. Morgan, but I can’t guarantee the results.”

  Chapter 13

  Pamela didn’t want to talk to Slade about his songs. She’d almost rather have been forced to learn the words and sing them herself. Holding a service for the crew was one thing. Disapproving of guns wasn’t very different. But she’d never done anything like this, and she wasn’t happy about it.

  She couldn’t do what Angus wanted. It was unthinkable she should even mention those songs without asking him to stop singing them. It wouldn’t have been so hard if things weren’t strained between them right now. She didn’t know how he would take it, and quite frankly she didn’t want to find out. Slade Morgan was not a man to take kindly to having others judge his actions.

  Pamela’s father had taught her to always stand up to trouble. Right now she wished he’d taught her to be a coward. Then she could slink away with a clean conscience.

  “I need to talk with you before you leave,” she said as Slade finished his supper that evening. “It won’t take long,” she quickly added when he looked like he was going to refuse. She wasn’t sure whether his look meant he didn’t believe her or he thought it was an attempt to get him off alone. Right now she didn’t have the courage to find out.

  Slade rinsed out his plate with his cold coffee. “Shoot.”

  What an appropriate word Pamela thought. She felt like somebody already had. At her. And they had hit her in the heart.

  “It’s about your singing.” God, any other time she would have loved to talk about it. That beautiful sound seemed incongruous coming from Slade, so totally unexpected. But to say that now would only add insult to injury.

  He didn’t say anything, just waited for her to go on.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a voice like that. We could have used you to lead the singing. You couldn’t help but hear how terrible it was.” She sounded so stiff and formal. If he would just say something instead of standing there like a statue. God, she couldn’t start thinking about Michelangelo again. She couldn’t blush. Not now.

  “When did you learn all those hymns?” That probably wasn’t the right thing to say either, but he wasn’t helping. It would be easier if he shouted at her.

  “I told you I sang in the choir as a kid,” Slade said at last. “The ladies said I looked like a cherub and sounded like an angel.”

  Something clicked in Pamela’s brain.

  “So that’s why you grew a beard.” She could tell that Slade hadn’t meant to say so much.

  “One more mystery solved. Soon I’ll be an open book.”

  “Did you like singing?” she asked. He had unbent a little. Please, just a little more.

  “It was about the only thing I did my mother approved of.” Pamela could have bitten her tongue, but as Slade kept talking, he appeared to become less angry, more indifferent. “She used to give me a nickel every time I learned a new hymn. I think there was a time I could sing the book straight through.” He looked searchingly at Pamela. “But you don’t want to talk about hymns.” Pamela shook her head. “I didn’t think so.”

  The silence lengthened until Pamela couldn’t stand it any longer. “Where did you learn those songs? The other ones,” she asked, curiosity more evident than condemnation.

  “You’ve been listening?” His eyes twinkled.

  “Not after the first one,” Pamela said. “But according to Angus, the entire camp lies awake every night. Apparently, they find the songs more entertaining than going to sleep.”

  Slade’s lips twitched. “I gather you’re working yourself up to some kind of statement.”

  “Not for myself,” she hastened to assure him. “I’ve been asked to speak to you on behalf of the crew.”

  Slade’s eyebrows rose. “And?”

  “They want you to sing the songs first?”

  “What?”

  “Angus says the boys are losing too much sleep waiting for you to finish with the hymns. They want the songs first.”

  Slade’s eyes positively danced with merriment, but his expression remained unchanged. “And you?”

  “I want you to stop them of course.”

  “You disapprove?”

  “Would you approve of songs like that if I were singing them about men?”

  “It certainly would be a novelty.”

  Pamela could relax now. Slade was making fun of her. She was familiar with that.

  “Slade, be serious. I wasn’t going to say anything. I figured the best thing for me was to stay in my wagon and put the pillow over my head. But I can’t have you keeping the men awake all night.”

  “And you can’t have me singing the songs first.” His eyes still danced.

  “I can’t ask you to.” She grinned.

  Slade grinned back.

  That night Slade began with the songs. But he only sang two, and they were so polite he could have sung them at a boxed-lunch social. The crew was disappointed, but they soon settled down to sleep. Pamela didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. But she had never known her own mind when it came to Slade Morgan. Why should this time be any different?

  Slade sat his horse on a rise about a mile from the camp. Green meadows and gently rolling hills dotted with ponderosa pine, alligator juniper, and several kinds of oaks gave the scene a feeling of pastoral calm. Distance stripped the cowboys’ work of its urgency, and their search for cattle through the shade of the thickets and the depths of the draws looked more like a choreographed ballet than the harsh, brutal work it was.

  But Slade was untouched by the beauty or the harshness. Using his field glasses, he could see just about everything that was happening, and he didn’t like it. All day long he had ridden over the range, monitoring the work of all six crews, and he could find nothing wrong. That made him uneasy. He had always had a sixth sense about people, and from the very First he had known that Mongo Shepherd was as underhanded as he was rich and cocky. He intended to steal Pamela’s range, by marrying her if possible, but Slade had no doubt he would use any method that came to hand.

  At the same time, Mongo had very little patience. Balked for too long, he wouldn’t wait until things were safe. He would press ahead. Slade had expected him to take advantage of the roundup, but ever since he shot the branding iron out of Peak Bolin’s hands, even the most careful scrutiny had turned up no problems. Everything had gone so smoothly they were going to finish a few days ahead of schedule.

  That would mean a return to the ranch, Dave’s reinstatement as foreman, and Slade’s departure for the trail to California. Slade didn’t want that. Every time he thought about leaving Pamela, his resolve weakened. He kept telling himself that his love for her differed in no way from his infatuation with Trish, that it would burn itself out as quickly as it had sprung up, but he didn’t believe it.

  Because you don’t want to believe it he told himself. You want to believe this girl is so deeply in love with you shell give up everything she’s ever wanted just for you. You’re trying to convince yourself you’ve found a place where you can be yourself, where you can stop running from people and their guns.

  You’re wrong, and only a fool would hang around pining for a love that can’t last. Don’t kid yourself by thinking her defending you or letting you kiss her in the moonli
ght makes any difference. That’s nothing but grasping at straws. You’re not her type and you never will be. If you had any common sense, you’d know that.

  You might as well ride out of here without going back to the ranch, his inner demon taunted him. Once her precious Frederick arrives, she won’t be interested in you any more. And if Frederick doesn’t settle your hash. Josh White surely will. No decent father would be willing to see his daughter marry a carnival has-been when she could choose a husband from the cream of eastern society.

  Still, Slade knew he would go back.

  You’d better pay some attention to what’s going on here, or you might not get the chance he told himself. Someone was maneuvering them, he knew it now, but he couldn’t figure out who or why. Somehow Mongo was the key to the whole thing.

  He’d had no idea what he would be getting himself into when he fought Mongo that day on the ranch. Now after the turnup over that maverick, everybody expected some kind of showdown.

  Why hadn’t it come?

  There could only be two reasons. Mongo was either a coward or he was waiting for something better. Since the first wasn’t true, it must be the second. But what could he have in mind? He acted awfully cool, something Slade found inconsistent with his character. Either he had his plans already laid and intended to wait quietly for the proper time to put them into action, something else Slade found inconsistent with his character, or he hadn’t found quite what he wanted, preferably something that would raise him in Pamela’s eyes while damaging Slade’s reputation at the same time.

  Slade tended to favor the latter. After all, Mongo was an easterner and they always seemed to favor verbal assassination. A western man was more likely to put a bullet in you and be done with it.

  And why did he feel so certain he had been maneuvered into a confrontation with Mongo? Because one of the men he had seen talking under the tree was the man who roped the maverick. It would have been a simple thing to rope the wrong calf just about the time Slade rode into view. Nobody would have paid much attention. Everyone had their own work.