Kid Calhoun

by Joan Johnston

  Jake found the country they rode through remarkable for its variety. The grassy plains spread out before them spotted with sagebrush and yuccas. To the east a limestone mesa rose up from the grassland. Beyond that, mountains were stained dark green with fir and pine. It was a land of vibrant contrasts. The sun was warm, but the spring wind was crisp. Jake raised the collar of the fringed buckskin jacket he had donned to protect himself from the cold.

  “We’re being followed,” Claire said.

  Jake turned and looked where she pointed. A large black dog loped along the ridge, his tongue lolling, his bushy tail swinging with each step.

  “He’s been shadowing us, stops when we stop, starts when we start again,” Claire said. She looked at Jake, who didn’t seem at all surprised by the dog’s presence. “Does he belong to you?”

  “Dog doesn’t belong to anyone. He pretty much goes where he wants, when he wants.”

  Like you, Claire thought. “Is he vicious?”

  “He’s never bitten anyone that I know of. But then, he never lets anyone get too close.”

  Like you, Claire thought. She put a hand up to shade her eyes so she could get a better look at the shaggy black animal. He had a ragged ear and a noticeable limp. “How’d he get torn up like that?”

  Jake shrugged. “Been in a few fights, I guess.”

  Claire smiled inwardly. Just like you.

  They rode in silence for another half hour before Claire said, “There’s Window Rock.”

  Jake thought she was talking about the ranch, but when he looked where she pointed he spied an immense boulder with a rectangular hole weathered into it.

  “Sam took one look at that rock and named the ranch after it,” Claire said. “It’s just as impressive every time I see it. The ranch house is over the hill.”

  The whitewashed adobe house lay nestled at the lip of a valley, its red tile roof shaded by the branches of a weeping willow. A nearby stream was bordered with birch and willow. A bunkhouse and barn had been built downhill—and downwind—from the house. There were several horses in a corral that was attached to the barn.

  Jake saw the cowhands stop what they were doing and turn to stare at them as they drove up. Obviously they hadn’t expected Claire to arrive accompanied by anyone. His eyes narrowed as one of the men pulled a Winchester from the boot on his saddle.

  When they reached the yard, Jake found himself the target of numerous weapons. His badge would have relieved their fears, but it was hidden beneath his jacket. He kept his hands visible and made no quick moves. He didn’t want to end up killing anyone unnecessarily. It never occurred to him that he was the one who might end up dead.

  “You all right, Mrs. Chandler?” one of the men asked.

  “I’m fine, Tim. This is my brother, Jake Kearney. He’s come in response to my wire.” She looked for Dog to point him out to the hands so they wouldn’t accidentally shoot him thinking he was a wild dog that might be a threat to the calves. But Dog had disappeared. She settled for saying, “Jake’s dog is around here somewhere. He’s big and black and looks a little like a wolf. Tell the hands to make sure what they’re aiming at before they shoot any predators, will you?”

  Tim nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.”

  Jake watched the air heave out of a half-dozen sets of lungs. Several of the men offered smiles that faded when Jake didn’t return them.

  An older, gray-haired man with a slight paunch over his belt came out of the barn and said, “You men stop gaping like greenhorns and get back to work.”

  Jake’s lip curled in pleasure at the sight of the leathery old man. “I’ll be damned.” He came off the seat of the buggy in a single graceful move. His hand reached out and was caught in an iron grip. “It’s good to see you, Shug.”

  The Window Rock foreman nodded a welcome. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Jake. Glad you showed up. Bad business here.”

  “Nobody’s going to force Claire into anything, Shug. I’ll see to that.”

  By then Claire had joined them. “Why don’t you two come inside where you can be comfortable and talk over old times.”

  Suddenly both men went still. They were reminded that it was Sam who had introduced his best friend, Jake, to his uncle, Shug, and given them a common thread upon which to weave a friendship. Then Sam had swept Claire off her feet at sixteen and married her, making them not only friends, but relations. Now, just ten years later, Sam was dead. It would have been too sorrowful to reminisce about days gone by without him.

  Shug shifted his feet and said, “Got work to do. By the way, Claire, that Reardon fella came by to see you.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I told him to make himself comfortable inside. See you at supper.” Then he was gone.

  “Would you like come inside and meet Will Reardon?” Claire asked.

  “I’d rather make my peace with Sam first.”

  Claire lifted her eyes and watched the sun setting. It looked like a piece of orange stained glass in the center of Window Rock. “I buried him up there. By the rock.” She turned and walked inside the house, leaving Jake alone.

  Jake untied his buckskin from behind the buggy and stepped into the saddle leather. The rangy gelding made short work of the distance between the house and the rock. The graveyard wasn’t hard to find. It had a white picket fence around it, and Claire had planted wildflowers. Jake stepped over the fence and walked up to the headstone. He took off his hat and turned the brim in his hands. He thought of all the rivers he had crossed with Sam.

  Jake listened for the wind and heard Sam’s laughter, looked for the lowering sun and felt Sam’s friendship. And missed them both. Sam was the brother he had never had. A special part of Jake had died along with his friend.

  It was Sam who had tried to convince him not to be so cynical about women.

  “Take your lead from me,” Sam had said with an irreverent grin. “You’re looking at a well-loved man.”

  “I’ll forgive your arrogance because it’s my sister you’re bragging on,” Jake had replied. “But I’d rather stake my life on a hand of poker than a pretty woman. The odds are better of coming out ahead.”

  “You just had a bad experience with that Mama of yours,” Sam said.

  Jake grimaced. “You ought not to pay too much mind to what a man says when he’s full of tonsil varnish.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair to let one woman spoil you for all the rest,” Sam needled.

  “I haven’t heard any complaints.”

  Sam snickered. “You never hang around long enough to hear the caterwauling start.”

  “I only need one thing from a woman,” Jake said. “And I’m willing to pay well for it.”

  “One of these days, you ornery bronc, some woman’s gonna come along and tie you in tee-tiny knots. When that happens—and it will—I’m gonna be there grinning like a jackass eatin’ cactus.”

  “You’ll be burning in hell before I fall prey to some maneuvering female!” Jake had retorted.

  It had been a running joke between them for years. Every time they saw each other Sam would ask, “You been hogtied yet?” Jake would laugh and answer, “Never gonna happen!”

  Jake stared at Sam’s grave. “Never gonna happen,” he murmured. He slipped his hat back on and told Sam about the red-headed hussy in El Paso who had kept him up for twenty-four hours straight.

  “It was the longest night of my life.” He grinned in remembrance. “And a helluva good time. But, Sam, I have to tell you, I didn’t have a bit of trouble tipping my hat to her. Just laid the cash on the bed and said so long.

  “You were wrong, Sam, about there being a woman who can tie me up in knots. I just wish to hell you’d hung around a little bit longer to let me prove my point.”

  Jake stayed by Sam’s graveside until the sun went down. In the half-light between day and night, tear-tracks dried by the blowing wind, Jake vowed to bring Sam’s murderer to justice.

  By the time Jake rode up to the hous
e, no signs of his terrible grief remained. He let himself in but paused just beyond the door. The rough pine furniture and woven Indian rugs gave the room a feeling of home. He could imagine Sam and Claire there. And Jeff. It had been nearly three years since Sam had come home from the roundup and told Claire their son had been killed by Apaches, but it seemed like only yesterday. How could Claire live with all the memories in such a room?

  Claire rose from her chair as soon as she spied Jake. “You just missed Will. I told him you’d be back soon, but he said he had some business at his ranch that couldn’t wait.”

  Jake turned to Claire and said, “I only came in to let you know I’m leaving.”

  “You just got here!”

  “The trail’s already getting cold, Claire. I need to get to Santa Fe. Booth Calhoun has a woman there.”

  “Can’t you even spend the night?”

  Jake looked around the room, felt the warmth, and shook his head. “If you need to get in touch with me for any reason, send a letter to me general delivery in Santa Fe.”

  Claire came to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and hugged him. “Take care of yourself,” she said.

  “I’ll find the men who killed Sam. And I’ll find the gold. Then I’ll be back.” He took comfort from her touch as he comforted her in return. Jake was surprised at how hard it was to turn his back on her and leave.

  An hour later, he had forgotten Claire. Eight shod horses had crossed the trail to Santa Fe. One horse seemed to be walking ahead—or perhaps was being followed by—the others. The trail was unclear in the moonlight. Eight shod horses. Nine members in the Calhoun Gang. Could that wounded outlaw have been too badly hurt to ride? It was a trail worth following.

  The hunt had begun.

  He searched the dark with ruthless eyes. Jake wasn’t adverse to bringing Sam’s killer—or killers—back for trial. But there were no laws here in the wilderness. It was often kill or be killed. Jake had learned better than to show mercy. A long time ago a young man named Bobby Latham had taught him a lesson he had never forgotten.

  And if, by some chance, the Kid and the gang he rode with lived long enough to be captured, Jake would make certain the outlaws ended up swinging from the business end of a rope.

  5

  Anabeth sought out the one female she knew in Santa Fe who might be able to help turn her into a lady. Sierra Starr wouldn’t have been called a lady in polite society, of course, but Anabeth had nowhere else to turn.

  Sierra had a room upstairs at the Town House Saloon. Anabeth came in the back way and slipped up to the room while Sierra was dealing faro in the bar. She sat in the dark waiting. Thinking. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that Sierra joined her there.

  Anabeth raised her hand to shield her eyes from the lantern in Sierra’s hand.

  “Who’s there?” Sierra called.

  “It’s me.”

  “Kid?”

  “Yes.”

  Sierra quickly crossed to the cushioned chair by the window where Anabeth sat. She set the lamp on a nearby table. “What are you doing here? Is Booth all right?”

  “He’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Sierra sank onto the foot of the big brass bed that dominated the room. “How? The holdup?”

  “Not during the holdup. After. It’s a long story.”

  “Why did you come here, Kid? Did Booth give you a message for me before … before he died?”

  For a moment Anabeth thought of making something up. She knew how much Sierra cared for her uncle, and she didn’t want to hurt the other woman’s feelings. “He … he was wounded so bad he could hardly talk.” That was true enough.

  “What happened?” Sierra asked.

  Anabeth’s jaw tightened. “It was that yellow-bellied, back-stabbing, desert lizard Wat Rankin. He turned the gang against Booth. And they shot him.”

  “Someone in his own gang shot him? Who?” Sierra asked.

  “All of them. Every damn one of those lowdown sidewinders put a bullet in Booth.”

  Sierra cried out as though she were the one who had been shot and hid her face in her hands.

  In retelling the story to Sierra Anabeth felt the same fury and frustration all over again. She could not comfort Sierra, because she was still so angry herself. She stared out the window at a world that was still going about its business as though Booth had never existed.

  Sierra dropped her hands from her face and said in a fierce voice, “I won’t mourn for him. He didn’t even have a word to spare—” Sierra leaped up and paced the length of the room and back again. “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  Anabeth turned to face her. “Because I need your help.”

  “Vengeance?”

  “I intend to have it,” Anabeth said baldly. “But I plan to handle that myself. What I need from you is something else entirely.”

  Sierra crossed her arms and waited.

  “I … I don’t know exactly how to tell you this. But I …”

  “You want me to find a girl for you?”

  “No!” Anabeth jumped up and confronted Sierra. “I guess there’s no way to say this except to say it. I’m not a boy. I’m a girl. I mean a woman. Booth was my uncle, but I’m not his nephew—I’m his niece, Anabeth.”

  Anabeth pulled off her Stetson and waist-length braids fell across her shoulders. She waited with bated breath for Sierra’s response. It wasn’t long in coming.

  Sierra laughed. And laughed. Until there were tears in her eyes. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because I have to hide from Booth’s gang. They think I know where Booth hid the gold from the last holdup. I don’t. But they’re looking for me. I don’t intend to let them find me until I’m good and ready.

  “Also, the shotgun rider saw my face during the holdup—as the Kid, of course. I thought if I dressed like a woman, no one would recognize me.”

  “So you came to me for help with your disguise?”

  Anabeth shrugged. “You’re the only woman I know.”

  Sierra took Anabeth’s chin in her hand and turned the younger woman’s face into the lamplight.

  “Somebody hit you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Wat Rankin.”

  Sierra’s eyes narrowed as she looked for signs of Anabeth’s femininity. “I can see it now that I know the truth.” She hissed in a breath of air. “It’s a wonder you weren’t discovered.”

  Anabeth had the same piercing blue eyes and coal black hair as her uncle. The same sharp nose and wide, high cheekbones. The same strong, stubborn chin. Only all these features were softened in the girl. Though she was nearly as tall as Booth’s six-foot height, where he had been lean and hard, she was lithe and supple.

  “I suppose everyone was looking for a boy, so that’s what they saw,” Sierra murmured.

  “Can you help me become a woman?” Anabeth asked.

  “I can put you in a dress, but there’s more to being a woman than wearing a skirt.”

  “I can learn!” Anabeth said.

  “Are you willing to give up smoking? Drinking? Swearing? Playing cards?”

  Anabeth eyed her from beneath lowered lashes. “Is that really necessary?”

  Sierra shook her head at Anabeth’s naïveté. “It is if you want to pass for a lady. If you’d rather work downstairs—”

  “No!” Anabeth realized how that must have sounded to Sierra. She softened her voice and said, “No, I’d rather do some other kind of woman’s work.”

  A furrow appeared on Sierra’s brow. She tapped her chin with a gracefully curved fingernail. “Can you sew?”

  “Not well.”

  “Cook?”

  “Not much.”

  “Take care of children?”

  “I wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do with one.”

  Sierra grimaced. “What can you do?”

  “I’m wonderful with horses.”

  “I hardly think you can remain anonymous if y
ou put on a dress and go to work at the livery,” Sierra said. “I’ve got it! Anyone can make a bed and sweep a floor. I know just the place where you can hide. Eulalie Schmidt’s boardinghouse. Eulalie might even have an extra bedroom you can use. She won’t be suspicious, either, since I’ve sent girls to her before that I didn’t think were right for the work here.”

  Sierra walked in a circle around Anabeth. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”

  Anabeth flushed. “I know I’m not much to look at—”

  “Actually, your looks may be a problem,” Sierra said. “You’ve got wonderful bones in your face. Put you in a dress and you’re liable to be a little too pretty. No, we’re going to have to make you look like less than you are. Let me think about it for a while.”

  “I guess I’d better leave so you can get some sleep,” Anabeth said. “I’ll be back early tomorrow.”

  “Where will you stay tonight?” Sierra asked.

  “I’ll find a place.”

  “Why not sleep here?”

  “Here?” Anabeth looked around at the feminine room. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Wat Rankin’s sure to come here sooner or later looking for me. Or you.”

  “No one comes into my room who isn’t invited,” Sierra said in a hard voice.

  “I only meant Rankin might think you know where the gold is or where I am,” Anabeth said. “Nothing else.”

  “Except for Booth, I haven’t had a man—” Sierra’s voice broke.

  Anabeth stood across from the other woman, feeling helpless to ease her pain. “You must have loved him very much,” she murmured.

  “It wasn’t love,” Sierra denied. “I know better than to fall in love with any man. He’ll only break your heart. That’s your first lesson as a woman, Anabeth. Learn it well.”

  * * *

  Jake felt hot, dusty, and disgusted as he rode down Canyon Road in Santa Fe. Shortly after he had picked up the tracks of what he hoped was the outlaw gang, they had split up and gone in eight different directions. Since he was headed for Santa Fe himself, he had followed the set of tracks that led directly here.