by Hall, Billy
‘The horses!’ Sam interrupted.
‘Yes sir!’
In other circumstances, his combination of running and stumbling drunkenly might have been funny. As it was, it only angered Sam further. Younger retraced his earlier steps and returned leading both his and Farmer’s horses. By the time he reached them, Sam was where he could watch to be sure he didn’t try to pull either rifle from its scabbard. Younger never so much as glanced at the weapons, hurrying as fast as his inebriated state would allow, to comply with Sam’s commands.
Grunting, sweating profusely and straining, he heaved his friend’s body across the saddle and lashed it into place. He started to mount, then turned back toward Sam. He scratched his head behind and above his right ear, knocking his hat askew without seeming to notice. ‘Uh, I know I ain’t got no right to ask this, but that there gun an’ holster set me back a couple months’ wages. If I dump the shells out’ve it, do you reckon you could see your way clear to let me take it with me? I didn’t have much money comin’ from Hi when we turned in our time, and I done drunk up most o’ that the past week. I just flat ain’t got enough money to get me another one.’
Sam considered it a long moment. The harsh lines relaxed around his mouth. ‘Get it.’
Once again, relief flooded Younger’s face. The fleeting thought crossed Sam’s mind that the cowboy would be a pushover in a poker game. Every thought in his head could be clearly read in his face. ‘Thanks, Mister. You’re a real stand-up guy. I really appreciate this. I’ll find a way to pay you back someday, if I can.’
He picked up his gunbelt and strapped it around his waist. He almost toppled over when he lifted one foot into the stirrup, but managed to grasp the saddle horn and haul himself into the saddle. Once in the saddle, he sat as if it were second nature, in spite of the whiskey he had consumed. Gripping the reins of Farmer’s mount, he rode away at a fast trot.
‘Are you sure that was a good idea?’
Sam whirled, his gun pointing at the surprising voice as if of its own volition. He jerked the gun aside violently, almost yelling at Kate. ‘Don’t ever come up behind me that way!’
Shock and surprise registered on her face, but relaxed as soon as he had swung the gun away and holstered it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I got worried, because I heard one shot, then nothing more. Was it Bobby?’
He nodded. ‘Him and a friend of his, that he got drunk then roped into comin’ along with ’im.’
‘Are you sure it was a good idea to give him his gun back?’ she asked again.
Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t think he’s any threat. Even when they didn’t think I could hear ’em, he was tryin’ to talk Bobby into leavin’. He just let a bad guy use friendship to rope ’im into bein’ where he didn’t wanta be. Even then, I think Bobby had to get ’im good and drunk to get him to go along this far.’
‘He told you that?’
‘That, and other things.’
Her face mirrored her confusion. ‘Other things? What other things?’
‘It don’t matter.’
The confusion changed to determination in her face instantly. ‘I matters if it concerns me.’
‘It don’t need to concern you now.’
She threw her rifle on the ground and stamped her foot in exasperation. ‘Don’t you start trying to treat me like a dumb and helpless woman! I want to know what other things you meant. Tell me!’
It was Sam’s turn to have uncertainty telegraphed on his face. He hesitated a long moment, then said, ‘He said that no matter how drunk he was, he wasn’t going to let Bobby do what he had in mind with you.’
Her face paled with understanding of what he was saying. Almost at once the pallor was erased by the red flush of anger. ‘He thought all he had to do was get rid of you, and then he could do whatever he wanted with me? Is that what you think too? Do you think I’m just a helpless dumb widow? Listen! I do not need you to take care of me, Sam Heller! I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and I will take care of myself just as soon as you take those stupid horses of yours and ride out of my life.’
Her anger was reflected in his own face at once, masking the hurt her words had inflicted. The anger gave his response a much harsher edge than he intended. ‘I just might do that.’
‘Then you just go ahead and do that! And the sooner the better. If you want paying for the wood you’ve chopped and the men you’ve shot, I’ll find the money to pay you.’
‘I ain’t never asked a dime from you, and I don’t want your money.’
‘You haven’t asked for anything else either, and it’s a good thing, because there’s nothing else for you here either. The sooner you’re out of my life and Billy’s the better it’ll be for both of us.’
‘If that’s the way you feel about it, I’ll pack my stuff and be on my way within the hour.’
‘Fine! I’ll fix you a lunch to take so you won’t have to slow down until you’re clear out of the country.’
‘If I need a lunch I’ll fix it myself. I don’t need anything from you any more’n you need me.’
‘So throw it away if you want to, but you’re not leaving without something to eat in your saddle-bag.’
With that she scooped up her rifle and stamped away to the house. With equal anger boiling within him, he walked swiftly to where his bedroll remained spread under a large oak tree. In minutes he had his belongings gathered, his bedroll tied behind his saddle, and was ready to ride.
He had waited only scarce minutes when Kate appeared with a cloth bag, tied securely with a piece of rawhide. She almost threw it at him, rather than handing it. ‘Here’s some food,’ she said, her voice still quivering with anger. ‘I thank you for all your help and for the wood you’ve chopped. Billy and I will be just fine for the winter now.’
Sam tried to soften the hard edges of her anger. ‘Uh, Hiram said him and the boys would sorta keep an eye on your cattle.’
Her anger flared hot again. ‘Sam Heller, how many times to I have to tell you I don’t need you, I don’t need Hiram and Eduardo and Bart, and I don’t need sympathy! Billy and I will manage just fine. Now get off my place!’
Even in her anger, Sam thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He fought down the urge to reach past her anger and sweep her into his arms. He could almost taste the sweetness of her lips, feel the shape of her body against him.
Instead he stepped into the saddle and jammed his spurs into his horse’s side, riding away at a canter.
Minutes later he tried to explain to Billy.
‘You can’t leave, Sam! Me an’ Ma, we need you here!’
Sam shook his head. ‘Your ma doesn’t want me here.’
‘Yes she does! She ain’t smiled or laughed since Pa got killed, till you came. She even joked about it when her an’ me had to leave the house so you could take a hot bath with that good-smellin’ soap Ma makes. She really wants you to stay.’
The smell of that soap wafted across his memory like the grasping tentacles of some irresistible creature. It was the same smell he caught wisps of whenever he was close to Kate. She made the softest, best smelling soap he had ever used. He had never bathed as often as he had in his brief stay here.
He shook his head to rinse the thoughts from his mind. ‘I can’t stay, Billy. I’ve helped where I can. I got to get these horses back to my boss and the other ranches they was stolen from. You and your ma will be just fine.’
Billy fought in vain to keep the tears from his eyes. ‘You’ll come back, won’t you? After you get the horses took home, you’ll come back? Promise me you’ll come back, Sam!’
Sam fought against his own emotions. ‘I can’t promise, Billy.’
‘Promise me you’ll try, at least.’
Sam sighed heavily. ‘I’ll see,’ he evaded.
‘You gotta come back, Sam. You just gotta.’
Sam reined his horse away, gathered his small remuda into a bunch and started moving them south. The last words
that rang in his head reached him, carried distantly on the wind, from a young boy standing clear up on top of his saddle, his hands cupped around his mouth to shout as loud as he could. ‘Please come back, Sam! Please? Please?’
CHAPTER 11
Anger still boiling within him kept Sam Heller’s lips a thin, straight line. He had pushed the horses harder than necessary, taking out his anger and frustration on them. The quiet voice in the back of his mind, nagging that they didn’t deserve that, only heightened and maintained his anger.
The large corral behind the livery barn in Mariposa stood open and ready. He hazed the horses into it, then swung down and shut the gate. The hostler ambled out as he turned to lead his horse into the stable. ‘Puttin’ ’em up overnight?’
Sam resisted the urge to say, ‘No, I just wanted to practice corralling them.’ Instead he asked, ‘How much?’
‘Ten cents a head, unless you want ’em grained.’
‘Just hay’ll be enough. There’s twenty one of ’em. I’ll be wantin’ this one grained and rubbed down, though.’
The hostler totted up the sum in his head. ‘That’ll come to two fifty.’
‘Want me to pay you now?’
The hostler shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘Just as well,’ Sam said, reaching past the belt of his chaps to dig the money from his pants pocket. He counted out the money that disappeared into the hostler’s pocket. ‘I’ll likely be pullin’ out about first light.’
‘I bed in the room at the back. Whistle if you need anything.’
Without answering, Sam strode out the front door of the livery barn and headed down the main street of Mariposa. He wouldn’t have needed to stop over in town on his way, but it was one night he wouldn’t need to keep the small remuda together while he tried to catch what sleep he could.
He stepped through the front door of the Lucky Lady Saloon and stopped dead in his tracks. It looked at first as if some sideshow from a traveling circus had come to town. Everyone at both the bar and the various gaming tables had stopped what they were doing. Every eye was fixed on the entertainment at the bar.
Several of Ben Grede’s private security force were lounging near the bar, grinning broadly. One of their own was loudly mocking Bart Spalding’s stutter. The son of the H Bar V rancher stood red-faced with anger. His fists knotted and unknotted at his side. Once in a while he glanced at the half-circle of his antagonist’s friends, as if weighing his chances against the lot of them.
The burly leader of the mockery leered at the hesitant cowboy. ‘Wh-wh-wh-what’s the m-m-m-matter, B-BB-B-Bartholomew? The c-c-c-cat got your t-t-t-t-tongue?’
Something exploded in Sam’s head. Anger and frustration had been boiling inside him every since he had words with Kate, gathered his horses and left. Helplessness and lack of understanding of what had even led to the quarrel had only deepened his dark mood. The loneliness he refused to admit feeling already brought that mood to a boiling point. Seeing the arrogance of the burly bouncer mocking the Spalding boy’s speech problem released the trigger. Sam snapped.
Without a word he strode forward. With no hesitation or warning, his left fist slammed into the burly man’s mouth. Teeth escaped their roots, two of them flying clear into the back of the man’s throat, causing him to swallow them instantly; blood flew from his face as if a ripe tomato had been smashed. The left to the mouth was followed instantly by a right hook to his left ear that guaranteed he would sport a cauliflow-ered ear the rest of his life. A left uppercut knocked his chin upward just in time for the right that followed it to connect solidly with the point of his chin. The big man toppled backward, unconscious, to sprawl in the sawdust that covered the floor.
There was an instant of incredulous calm, then the half-circle of his friends rushed forward as one to overwhelm this newcomer who had dared to attack one of their own.
Years of frustration and anger had been building in Bartholomew Spalding; Sam’s wordless actions seemed to release a spring within him as well. As the friends of the downed bouncer rushed forward, the first three were met by a huge arm, swinging with the size and force of a tree limb. All three were swept backward. Their feet were well above their heads by the time their heads contacted the sawdust that cradled their friend. At least two chairs from nearby tables were reduced to kindling beneath them.
Before they hit the floor, Sam had already stepped forward and met the closest of his attackers with a swift knee to the groin, followed by another knee to the face that lowered accommodatingly as the man doubled forward in pain. To enforce the second knee’s impact, Sam had grabbed a handful of hair and helped the head propel itself into his rising knee. Like the first man, he was unconscious before he crumpled on the floor.
With a roar of released rage, Bart grabbed the belt of another of the attackers and hauled him off his feet. Swinging him in a circle high above his head, he threw him like a rag doll into the mass of bodies surging forward. Four men were carried backward by the weight and force of more than two hundred pounds of flesh and bone hurtling into them. A table and two more chairs fell victim to the burden they were not built to bear.
Unseen, with the first noise of the brawl, Ben Grede rushed out of the door of his office. He stepped to the back end of the bar and engaged in a hurried conversation with the bartender. Grede held out his hand to the bartender, who reached under the bar and retrieved a sawn-off double-barreled twelve gauge shotgun.
Others of Grede’s security force from every quarter of the saloon and gambling hall were already rushing to their fellows’ aid. Fighting fiercely side by side, it was obvious that Sam and Bart would soon be overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. The only thing that had delayed that inevitable event this long, was the difficulty the bouncers’ reinforcements were having stepping over and around the growing pile of their downed friends.
Over and above the din of the raging battle, the roar of the twelve gauge echoed from the ceiling and walls, making the chandeliers quiver. The noise level dropped abruptly but not entirely. A second round from the shotgun, fired into the floor, brought everything to a sudden halt. All eyes turned to the owner, glaring over the cigar clamped tightly in the corner of his mouth.
Grede jabbed a finger at one of his men closest to him. ‘You! Frank! Get a couple of these idiots to help you, and haul Lyle out of here and throw him in a horse tank. When you get him woke up, tell him I said to turn in his time and get out of town. I hire you boys to keep things quiet and peaceable around here, not to start fights.’
He waited a pregnant moment to let his words soak in, then continued. ‘The rest of you, give a listen.’
He pointed to Bart Spalding. ‘This boy is welcome in this place any time he wants to stop in, and there’s a free drink waiting for him any time he does. And the first one of you I hear makin’ fun of him will answer to me.’
Again he glared at his crew of enforcers, giving his words time to penetrate even the thickest of skulls. Then he addressed the chagrined group again. ‘Do you all understand that?’
Nobody responded. They all studied their boots intently.
Grede’s voice raised an octave, as did the volume of his question. ‘I said, Do you all understand that?’
Instantly his words were met by a chorus of mumbled compliance and nodding heads.
Whirling, Grede tossed the now empty shotgun back to the bartender and disappeared into his office.
Deathly silence descended on the entire establishment. It was the bartender who spoke up. ‘Well, what are you all waiting for? The show’s over. Go back to what you were doing.’
He turned to Sam and Bart. ‘What can I get for you boys? It’s on the house.’
Bart studied the blood on his skinned up knuckles, as he had never seen them in that state before. He looked at Sam, then at the bartender. ‘Uh, yeah. Yeah. I could use a drink.’
Sam grinned at him. ‘You give a pretty good account of yourself for a kid,’ he offered.
Bart grinned b
ack, suddenly feeling euphoric and not understanding why. ‘I ain’t never done nothin’ about folks makin’ fun of me before. That felt good. That felt plumb good!’
Sam refrained from commenting that the young man had made the statement without any hint of a stutter.
Over the next hour they talked. Mostly, Sam talked to drown out the echo of Kate’s words that ripped his guts apart every time he remembered them. Every time the conversation lagged, the words repeated themselves in his mind. ‘I don’t need you, Sam Heller, and I don’t need sympathy! Billy and I will manage just fine. Now get off my place!’
Even in his mind, he couldn’t stand to listen. To silence their unbearable pain, he talked to Bart. Sam told him about the ranch he worked for in the Indian Nation, its location, the crew, how it felt to work there, and experiences he had doing so. He had no idea the conversation would affect the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 12
Dust hung in the still air. It was hot for early November. Sam Heller hazed the last of the steers into the shipping corral and swiped the sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve.
‘Bath’s gonna feel good tonight,’ he muttered to himself.
Instantly he wished he hadn’t said that – or thought it. Once again, as for countless other times, he fought down the thought of the shrinking bar of soap he had carefully hoarded. In his mind he could smell it already. Smelling it, he smelled Kate as well. The familiar ache knotted his stomach and twisted barbed wire around his heart.
He gritted his teeth and shook his head, feeling the sand grate between his teeth as he did so. As hard as he fought not to, he heard again the plaintive cry, borne on the breeze, ‘Please come back, Sam! Please?’
He jerked his horse’s head around sharply and rammed his spurs into the startled animal’s sides. The horse lunged forward, even as the spurs sent sharp pains stabbing into Sam’s conscience. ‘He didn’t deserve that,’ his conscience nagged him.
‘You OK, Sam?’ Oz Maquire asked, loping up alongside him.