by John Shirley
“Come on, Lorenzo,” said Dorge, beaming at the thought of beer. “Let’s try the Jack of Hearts!” They rode off toward the dance hall, chuckling over their good fortune.
Mase took a bag of cracked horseshoes out from under the seat of the wagon and carried it over to the blacksmith. The rocky ground of the Red Trail had ruined many a horseshoe. Denver dismounted, tied his horse to a wagon wheel, and followed along behind Mase, a self-appointed bodyguard. He and Pug had insisted, and Mase had given in.
Mase glanced at him, saw the way he had the holster of his Smith & Wesson revolver tied low on his thigh. He remembered what had come out when they were talking to the sheriff about Fort Griffin. And what Pug had said about his time around Denver Jimson. “Denver,” Mase said, “seems like every time I learn something new about you, I’m a little more surprised you came along on this drive. Sounds to me like you’ve got other skills that’ll bring you more gold than punching cattle could.”
“Those skills are just as likely to get me back shot as paid,” said Denver. “I’ve had enough of that kind of living. I’m trying to learn some other trade. And I was broke when I heard you were hiring.”
“There’s always lawing.”
“Did that for a couple years. Deputy in Virginia City. There is no more melancholy work, boss.”
Mase nodded. “I can believe that.”
They found the blacksmith just taking off his gloves beside his glowing forge. He wore leather overalls with no shirt; he was a big man who looked to be half Indian and half black. Mase introduced himself and Denver, and they both shook the blacksmith’s hand.
“Name’s Brightwater,” the blacksmith rumbled.
“Got a bag of horseshoes here,” Mase said, passing them over. “Hoping you can fix some, replace what you can’t. We can fit ’em to the right horses at the drive camp.”
Brightwater nodded. “What outfit you with?”
“I run the Durst Ranch. Herding to Wichita.”
“Durst! You related to Hiram?”
Mase was startled to hear his brother’s name again. “If he looks a little older than me but not so different—that’s my brother.”
“That’s the man. Good fella. Always pays me right off. Treats me square. Him and Queenie don’t put on airs.”
“Queenie?”
“She’s running the Stew Pot for Murch Sanborne. He ain’t much, but I like Queenie, anyhow.”
“What’s Hiram doing around here?”
“Works over at the Jack of Hearts. He’s the guard. They kept having trouble. He cut a man down not long ago in there. Outlaw name of . . . Cleland, I think.”
Mase nodded. “Sounds like Hiram.” Always skimming along on the edge of the law, looking for a meal ticket to the high life. And if it was a risky job, all the better.
“I can have these for you in the morning,” Brightwater said, looking in the gunnysack.
“That’ll do. We’re moving on tomorrow afternoon.”
“Say boss?” Denver said, giving Mase an inquiring look.
“Yeah?” Mase knew what he was going to ask.
“We going into the Jack of Hearts, or ain’t we?”
“I didn’t want to leave those two cowboys in there long, anyhow.”
“That mean I can buy you a drink?”
“One beer if you’ve got the money. I’m not paying advances.”
“I’ve got a dollar or two.”
They waved goodbye to Brightwater and went down the street, passing a barbershop and a bakery before crossing to the Jack of Hearts. Mase was nervous about seeing Hiram but stirred with curiosity, too.
The double doors were nicely paneled, with red glass inlays shaped like hearts. Mase took a deep breath and opened the doors.
* * *
* * *
Binder doesn’t like me sitting here with you, Hiram,” Queenie said as she sat down beside him at the little table near the stage. The dancers were taking a break and the piano player, Milly, was playing a slow sad song that seemed to be making an old, bearded miner weep as he sat close beside her, whiskey bottle in hand.
Hiram put his coffee cup down and said, “Well, Binder figures you’re spying or some kinda saboteur for Sanborne. He can go and pound sand for all I care.” He had his shotgun propped on his left leg, pointing at the ceiling. It was getting heavy, so he moved it to the right.
“I am trying to do him a dirty,” she said, chuckling. “I’m trying to hire you away! Sanborne is giving me hell for keeping time with Binder’s man. He wants you at the Stew Pot.”
“Sure, so he can start sending the gun-flashy saddle bums in here again. Any which way, I’m doing fine right here. I’m saving up, and when I’ve got enough, you and me are going to New Orleans. You want some champagne? Binder got some in. I figure we—”
He broke off, staring. His brother, Mase, was standing at the bar.
Mase was looking trail worn, with a day’s beard on him and some sunburn. But he looked like a man who rode tall in the saddle, upright and strong. There were lines at the corners of his eyes that somehow bespoke the man he was.
Mase was looking around—and then their gazes met.
Hiram’s mouth went dry. He felt his heart sinking, and he wondered, What’s wrong with me? I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.
He took a deep breath, stood up, and walked across the room.
“Aren’t you going to drink your beer, little brother?” Hiram asked, gesturing at the untouched glass on the bar. “It’s not bad here. For Leadton, anyhow.”
Mase smiled. Those lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. He put out his hand, and the two men shook. It was a handshake that suited acquaintances more than brothers meeting after five years.
Hiram laid the shotgun on the bar. “Stanley, hold on to that for me, will you?”
The bartender nodded and stowed the street howitzer under the bar.
“What brings you to this run-down old mining camp, Mase?” Hiram asked.
“Running a herd through. All the other trails were shut down. Floods and Indian trouble. This one’s not much better.” He hesitated, then said, “Have a drink with me, Hiram?”
Hiram was relieved to hear the invitation. It was a shade friendlier than a handshake. He hadn’t been sure where they stood. They’d quarreled when last they’d seen each other. Mase had told Hiram he didn’t like the company his brother was keeping—men with bad reputations. Hiram was the older brother—but Mase often acted as if he were the older one.
“Sure, I’ll have a beer. I need a champagne, too, Stanley,” he added to the bartender, seeing Queenie bustling up to them.
She was looking narrowly between the two men, her brows knit, probably wondering why Hiram had walked off from her without a word.
“Queenie, this is my brother, Mason. Mase—this is the light of my life, Miss Queenie Jones.”
“Well, listen to him!” she laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve heard I’m the light of his life! But I have heard of you.” She shook Mase’s hand. “Hiram says you own most of Texas!”
Mase grinned. “Oh, I’ve got my piece of it, anyhow. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Folks, this is Denver Jimson. He’s a drover for me.”
“And almost figured out the job,” Jimson said, shaking Hiram’s hand.
Hiram looked at the clean-shaven man with the gun tied down and the lynx-eyed gleam, and thought he seemed more like a town lawman than a range hand.
Queenie accepted her flute of champagne and drank half of it off. “Why, it’s almost cold,” she said, setting it down. “Thanks for the drink, hon.” She kissed Hiram on the cheek. “I’ve got to get back to work. I expect you two need to talk.”
Hiram, Mase, and Jimson watched her walk off, and Jimson shook his head. “Fine figure of a woman,” he said. He glanced quickly at Hiram. “If you don�
�t mind my sayin’.”
“Don’t mind at all. Only it’s look but don’t touch, friend.”
Jimson grinned. “Fair enough. Say, Mase”—he pointed at a smoke-wreathed table in the corner—“there’s Lorenzo and Dorge. Took them no time at all to get in a card game. I believe I’ll go keep an eye on them.”
“Tell ’em it’s going to be a short game,” Mase said.
Jimson picked up his glass of beer and strolled to the table. Mase turned to the bar, drank some beer, and said, “Been a long time, big brother. You seem like you’re doin’ fine. Last time I saw you, you were riding with Goose Peterson and Cal Fogerty.”
Hiram winced. “You can go ahead and gloat. You were right. I split up with them about two days after you went back to Dallas. Peterson was hung about a year after that, and last I knew, Fogerty was in the state prison.”
Mase nodded as if he’d been expecting it. “I’m just glad you took a different trail. I hear you’re working in this very establishment, keeping an eye on things.”
“That’s right. Sitting around in here about wears me out. Mase—how’s Katie? And the boy?”
“Last I saw ’em, they were prime! Jim’s already helping with the herd. He can ride, too. Not much more than a pony, but he rides it like a cowpuncher.”
“I’ll be damned! That little fella’s chasing cows already?” Hiram shook his head in wonder, suddenly feeling that his own life had passed him by. What did he have to show for the last five years? A bullet scar on one leg and eighty dollars saved up. “Well—I’ll tell you true. I’ve done little but bump from one job to another.” He didn’t want to mention his time in the south Montana range war. “Haven’t put much by. But Queenie and I are talking about starting our own dance hall, down to New Orleans. Say—how many head are you running?”
“Around twenty-three hundred. Lost almost a dozen in a flood, and we’ve had two run-ins with a gang of rustlers. Fellow by the name of Joe Fletcher runs it. You know him?”
“I do. Never had the time for him. Might be in town if you want to find him.” Hiram realized now that the cattle outfit Joe Fletcher had been talking about going after was Mase’s. Hiram had heard before that Fletcher had twice tried to get a piece of some Texan’s herd, and twice had failed. He hadn’t known he’d been after Durst Ranch cattle.
Mase shook his head. “I’ve had enough trouble. We don’t have time for him either. Got a herd to move.”
“I don’t know if he’d be fool enough to come after you now, if you’ve paid the sheriff off for free passage. But . . . best watch your back trail. And scout up ahead with your eyes peeled.”
“You can count on that. Hiram, tell me about your plans with Queenie—and New Orleans.”
Hiram smiled. It was a subject he liked better.
* * *
* * *
Katie was just beginning to make supper when Jim ran into the kitchen. “Mama—it’s that Tom Harning!”
She looked up from the kitchen sink. “Whereabouts?”
“Coming down our road right to the house!”
“Who’s with him?”
“Nobody.”
That surprised her. It was a relief, too. Unless he had a gun in hand, she wouldn’t likely need to get the shotgun or her pistol.
“Is your pony still saddled?”
“Yep, you said you were going to help me—”
“Never mind that. You take the pony, go on, and get Curly, just in case. Hurry up now. He’s out checking on the new calves.”
“Shouldn’t I stay here and keep an eye on him?”
“If he’s alone, it’s all right. Go on.”
He ran out the door. Katie took off her apron and changed her mind about the gun. Best to keep it handy.
She went to the bedroom, opened a dresser drawer, reached behind the pantaloons that she’d only worn once, and drew out the pistol.
Then she went out on the porch to wait for Harning.
He was about fifty yards out, cantering in on his high-stepper, wearing his best church clothes, and a friendly smile. There were two wooden chairs on the porch. Katie sat on one chair and put the gun underneath it, where it was hidden by her long skirt. She waited.
Harning rode up, dismounted, looped the reins over the hitching post, and said, “Mind if I sit down, Katie?”
She did mind. But she wanted to find out what he was up to with the minimum of trouble.
Let him talk at his ease for a time, she thought.
“Go on ahead,” Katie said in a calm voice.
She saw no weapon on him. But it wouldn’t surprise her if he had a small hideaway gun.
He stepped up on the porch and sat on the chair to her left. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “Surprisingly warm for May.”
She said nothing.
He cleared his throat. “You and I have gotten off on the wrong foot. Things could be completely different between us, you know. Just the opposite.” He leaned a little toward her and gave her a reptilian smile. “You’re going to need my help—not my enmity, Katie.”
“I have no need whatever of your help, Tom Harning,” she said firmly, leaning away from him.
“Your husband, sad to say, bit off more than he could chew. I know all about that route he’s taking. It’s a fool’s errand. A suicide trail.” He softened his voice so it held a fair imitation of sympathy. “Renegades. Outlaws. Floods and disease. Rockslides. It’s all to be found on that trail. I’m afraid we cannot expect him to return to you.”
Her hands balled into fists on the arms of the chair. It took an effort to control her voice as she said, “Harning, I don’t know what you paid the sheriff to lie to Curly Chavez. But I do know it was a lie.”
Harning adopted a look of surprised innocence. “I paid the man nothing! He heard a rumor—I’ve heard it, too! Now, maybe that rumor was wrong. What I’m sure of is your husband left you here when things were unsettled. When there were legal questions and things were going wrong for you. He just left you! Who knows when he’ll be back, Katie? Now, I can take care of you.”
She looked at him, wondering if she’d heard him right. “What are you saying?”
“You won’t have to work your fingers to the bone on this hardscrabble ranch! You can get yourself a servant! I’ll pay for it all. I’ll set you up—someplace comfortable. Maybe off in Fort Worth. I get up there regular. We can have an understanding. You’ll be a woman of leisure and—” His eyes got big and his mouth clapped shut when he found himself staring into the muzzle of her pistol.
She had to take a long breath before she could speak. Her left hand was gripping the arm of the chair, and the trigger finger of her right hand was twitching. “Tom Harning. You have sent men to pull down my fences. You’ve sent hired guns to try to frighten me. You’ve sent men to target shoot at my property. You’ve fixed the judge and the sheriff against me. And I stood it. But I’m not going to stand this insult.”
She cocked the gun.
He swallowed and raised his hands. “Now, Katie—”
“Stand up.”
He stood up. His hat fell from his lap onto the porch boards, and she kicked it into the dirt.
“Pick up your hat,” she grated, standing.
He stepped off the porch and picked it up as she tracked him with the gun. There was anger tightening his face now.
“Get on your horse. Don’t say a word. Just get on it and ride off Durst land. When my husband comes home, you’d better hope he doesn’t see you anywheres around here. Because he’ll cut you down!”
Hand shaking, Harning crushed his hat onto his head, mounted his horse, and rode off. She watched him till he’d ridden through the gate. Then, feeling drained, she thumbed the pistol off cock and sank onto the chair.
“Mase,” she murmured, “you’d better come home. You’d better get yours
elf home fast.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
You sure you won’t come out to camp for supper, Hiram?” Mase asked. Hiram and Mase and the drovers—who were only a little tipsy after an hour and a half in the Jack of Hearts—were standing out front of the dance hall. “We’ve got a cook John Chisum would envy.”
“Can’t do it, Mase,” Hiram said, smiling. “Much as I’d like to. I’ve got business here. Me and Queenie have a plan, and I have to see to it. You coming in tomorrow?”
“Someone’s got to pick up some horseshoes for the remuda tomorrow morning. I could do it myself.”
“Well, I’m staying right here—they got rooms for rent up over the saloon.”
“Supposing I come and get you for breakfast? I reckon you don’t often get up that early, but . . .”
“I’ll somehow live through it, Mase! You come and bang on my door, wake me up—and I’ll drink a pot of coffee with you before you hit the trail.”
“I’ll do it. Hiram, I heard there wasn’t much mail service to Leadton? Is that right?”
“It’s true. We’re damnably isolated. We don’t have a post office or a stagecoach office—no Wells Fargo or Butterfield. Sometimes mail comes in—every couple months if we’re lucky—with goods shipped down from Morrisville. The mayor collects it in his butcher shop.”
Mase nodded. He’d told Katie she could try to write to him here, but the letter was unlikely to have arrived.
“Listen, Hiram—don’t you kinda figure five years was too long?”
Hiram nodded. “It was, Mase. I’m sorry for it.”
“You know where Durst Ranch is. You and Queenie could come down to the ranch for a spell. Katie and Jim will be happy to see you. I’m sure Katie would like Queenie.”
“You think so? Queenie’s a . . . well, a free-spirited sort of woman. If you know what I mean.”
“Katie’s free-spirited herself, just in a different way. She respects strong women, and Queenie seems like she’d fill the bill.”
“She’s a strong one, all right. Figures out what she wants and goes for it. And no shrinking violet. Fella tried to rob the bar once, and she shot him with a derringer. Didn’t kill him, but it put an end to his capers.”