"I would be honored to change his diaper," Fay cooed, grinning broadly at the blanketed bundle in her arms, the little pink face mottled from crying. "And how are you, my dear sweet William Ben?"
The baby's cry was high-pitched and loud, fairly rattling the windows.
"That about says it all," Crystal said as she headed into the kitchen. "He slept only about two hours last night, and he's been awake all morning. If you still want him by the time you leave, he's yours." Crystal turned to Fay with the brittle, exaggerated smile of a sleep-deprived young mother who had, somehow, retained her sense of humor. "Coffee?"
"Sure," Fay said with a laugh. "Pour me a cup." She cuddled the baby, rocking it gently, and gradually the child stopped crying and stared at Fay with its large, cobalt-blue eyes as though mesmerized. A few minutes later the round eyes grew heavy, and the child fell asleep against Fay's shoulder.
"Look at that, Crystal," Marie said as she set cookies on a plate, noting the quiet baby in Fay's arms. "He's settled right down."
"Just like his grandfather," Crystal quipped. "A sucker for a pretty face."
When Crystal had put the baby to bed, she returned to the kitchen where Fay and Marie had taken seats at the round pine table covered with a blue-checked oilcloth. "I take it there's been no sign of our weaker halves, eh?" Crystal asked Fay.
"Nothing yet," Fay said with a sigh. "I'm sure they're fine, though."
"Yeah, me, too," Crystal said, taking a seat across the table. "Ben promised to bring Jody back unharmed. He's never lied to me before...." But the dark light in her eyes as she brought her cup to her lips told Fay that Crystal had been as worried as Fay had been. "When I first saw you ride up," Crystal continued, "I got worried you had bad news, it being a school day and all. But then I saw you smiling at Robert."
"I canceled class for the day," Fay said. "Frankly, my nerves have been frayed a bit, and I felt like taking a day off." Brushing cookie crumbs from her lips, she turned to Marie. "Also, I have good news for you, Marie. Mr. Wade has agreed to hire you at the Boston."
Marie looked stunned. "Me?"
Fay reached out and clutched the timid woman's hand. "Of course you. You wanted me to inquire, didn't you?"
"Well... yes, but I never... I didn't think he'd actually consider me!"
"Well, he did consider you, Marie. Not only that, but you're hired. He's expecting you in exactly one month. Do you think you'll be ready?"
Marie blinked her eyes and set her coffee down carefully so she wouldn't spill it. Her face was flushed. "I-I don't know. Where will me and the children ... where will we live ... ?"
"That's been taken care of, too. Mrs. Merrivale would love for you to live with her until you can find a place to rent. You remember Dott Merrivale, don't you? She lost her husband a couple months ago, and her children are all grown. She has a big house all to herself, and she really took to the idea of having you and the children help her fill it. I talked to her after church last Sunday."
"My gosh, I..."
"You wanted to get on your feet, Marie," Crystal said. "Not that Jody and I don't love having you here. I mean, as far as we're concerned, you can live with us indefinitely. We have plenty of room, and we love the kids. But I know how important it is for you and the children to have a place of your own."
Marie took her cup in her delicate hands and sipped her coffee thoughtfully. Setting the cup back down, she looked at Fay. Fay thought it might have been the first time the woman had ever looked her in the eye. "Thank you so much, Fay. I'd like to... I'd like to give it a try."
Fay squeezed her hand, kissed her cheek, and smiled. "It's settled then. And you and Ben and I will be neighbors. Mrs. Merrivale lives just down French Street from us."
Fay stayed another hour, chatting with the women. When she was ready to leave, she went into the bedroom and kissed little William Ben good-bye.
"I think you need one of those," Crystal said as Fay returned to the kitchen.
"What's that?"
"A baby."
Fay thought about it, as she had thought about it so often in the past. She and Ben had discussed it, but he'd been reluctant because of his job and his age.
"You know what?" Fay said wistfully, longing again for her husband, wondering where he was and what he was doing... when he would return and when she would feel his big arms around her once again. "I think you're right."
Chapter Twenty
THE BOOM ECHOED in the cloudy distance rimmed with grassy buttes and pine-studded rimrocks.
Stillman reined his horse to a halt. He glanced at Jody.
"What the hell was that?" Hendricks said, riding behind them.
Neither Stillman nor Jody said anything. They heeled their horses into gallops, gravel fanning out behind them. When they'd ridden a half mile along a sagey bench between two canyons, Stillman led the way into a hollow, through a swale bordered by rocky escarpments, and onto the bench on the other side.
About fifty yards away he saw a man standing by two horses on a finger of land jutting into another shallow canyon speckled with junipers and cedars. He heeled his horse that way and reined up as the man watched, one hand on the hogleg jutting up from a soft leather holster positioned for the cross-draw. The man wore a black, weather-tattered sombrero and a somber expression on his round, unshaven face.
On the ground behind him lay another man on his back, the top of his head blown onto the talus gravel above him. His arms were outstretched, as though he were waiting for angels slow to appear.
"That damn trapper kilt Condor," the man said, glancing at the body on the ground. "The kid, Falk, he was talkin' to him just a minute before it happened—from down in the canyon there. The trapper must've had ole Condor dead to rights, and he was afraid to say anything, Dave was."
"Where are the others, Aver?" Jody said.
"They went off to track him. I stayed behind to bury Condor." The stocky cowboy, Aver Wilkinson, glanced at the body again sadly. "We bunked together, me and Condor." His jaw tightened and his eyes slitted, his face mottling. "When we catch that damned Shambeau..."
"Looks to me like he's catching us.” Stillman said as he dismounted and handed his reins to Jody.
Hendricks rode up with his new Colt rifle in his hands, shifting his eyes from the cowboy to Condor Ulrich and back again. "What the hell happened now?" he barked.
While Wilkinson went through it again, Stillman crouched to inspect the body. There wasn't much to see but blood and brains, so he turned away. Seeing the porcupine carcass, he walked over and poked at it with his boot. He picked up a bone and inspected it closely.
"What do you have, Ben?" Jody said, dismounting his buckskin.
"Same thing Condor had before he bought the farm. Shambeau's last meal."
"Porcupine?"
"Sure. You've never had porcupine?"
"Unfortunately, it was one of Pa's specialties. But not even he ate it raw."
"He would have if he'd been on the hoof with men after him, not wanting to signal his presence with a fire." Stillman tossed the bone into some shrubs and looked around.
Hendricks had dismounted. Approaching Stillman red-faced and with his rifle in his arms, he said, "What the hell is going on here, Sheriff? Who's hunting who?"
"I think that's fairly obvious."
"You have a job to do, damnit! Why in the hell aren't you doing it?"
Before Stillman could answer, Jody said with a humorous air, "Uh, Ben, I'm gonna lead our horses into the canyon for water. There's a spring down there."
Stillman didn't reply. He was staring at Hendricks with no shortage of disdain in his gray-blue eyes. The rancher stared back through the two fleshy pockets in his face, the round top of his pitted nose turning pink. He swallowed and took one step back as Stillman moved toward him stiffly, hands straight down at his sides.
Out of the comer of his eye, Stillman saw something move to his left. Before he could react, a big-caliber rifle exploded with a deafening roar. Hendricks gave
a start and a jerk, his face going slack. Blood shot from his right temple, splattering Stillman's coat.
As the rancher dropped to his knees, Stillman wheeled left, clawing iron. Shambeau turned and disappeared down an escarpment about twenty yards away.
The wide-eyed Wilkinson looked after the trapper in shock. "That son of a duck!"
Stillman crouched and raised his gun, but Shambeau was gone.
"Stay with Hendricks!" he yelled to the cowboy and took off running, climbing the escarpment in five fluid leaps. At the top he saw Shambeau clad in a wolf-hide tunic running westward along another escarpment. Stillman dropped to a knee and squeezed off two quick shots, both bullets spanging off rocks with high-pitched whines.
Bolting to his feet, Stillman ran, hurdling rocks and dodging boulders and low-growing pines. The escarpment jutted sharply to the left. Shambeau followed it, running hard, his rifle in his right hand, a packsack flopping against his back.
Stillman brought his gun up, took hasty aim, and fired twice more. Both shots sailed wide. Shambeau disappeared behind several boulders piled by a long-ago glacier.
Stillman cursed and ran, his boots crunching gravel and clattering on exposed shale and limestone slabs. He pumped his arms, his heart swelling with his eagerness to catch the trapper once and for all.
Suddenly Shambeau appeared ahead of him. The man was looking around him, hesitating, his heavy brows furrowed as though perplexed. He glanced back at Stillman approaching at a run, extending his revolver and thumbing back the hammer.
Stillman fired, but it was too late. Shambeau had jumped off a ledge. Stillman ran to the ledge and peered over the cliff into a deep gorge cut eons ago by the river, hollowing it from chalky rock. Below stood a tall, straight pine, its top about thirty feet beneath the ledge.
Stillman's blood quickened when he saw Shambeau clinging to the trunk of the pine, a few feet from the top. The tree was wavering, slowly bowing with the trapper's weight.
Stillman hesitated, not quite believing what he was seeing. Then the tree bowed in earnest, the bark cracking, its top curving groundward.
Stillman aimed and fired his last two shots, both slugs snapping branches. Then he lowered his gun and watched Shambeau drop from a branch, hit the ground on his feet, stumble once, and run. He ran, limping slightly, until he disappeared around a butte. He was still carrying his rifle.
Stillman holstered his gun and stared at the tree, which had resumed its natural position. He bent at the waist, held his arms out from his sides, encouraging himself to do what the trapper had done. He could do it, by God, if Shambeau could.
Well, he who hesitates...
"Ben!" Jody called behind him.
It was too late. Stillman had jumped, free-falling from the cliff. He hit the pine with a violent thump, the air hammered out of his lungs, feeling as though his brisket had been split with a wedge. Pine needles and cones jabbed his face, poked at his eyes.
He felt the tree shudder and bow. Then there was a loud cracking sound, and Stillman's heart fell as did the rest of him, plummeting through branches. He landed hard, feeling the pricks and pokes of the tree branches collapsing around him. The trunk spanked the ground with a roar and a rush of cool wind.
Stillman lifted his head, but everything was a blur. His brain pounded painfully.
He sighed. Everything went dark and quiet.
He woke later to Jody squatting before him and asking, "How many fingers am I holding up, Ben? How many fingers?"
Blinking groggily, feeling as though his skull had been split with an ax, Stillman looked around. The tree he'd brought down was nowhere to be seen. They were in a narrow canyon with a spring freshet running nearby. The horses were hobbled on the grassy bank. It was a tidy little place, and Stillman could see why Jody had picked such a bivouac. It had high walls and appeared accessible from only one direction.
The clouds had lifted, and the sun felt nice on Stillman's face.
"How many fingers am I holding up, Ben?" Jody repeated, an air of desperation in his voice. "How many fingers?"
Stillman pushed himself into a sitting position with his hands, grunting and groaning with the effort. "Three."
Jody sighed with relief. "How do you feel?"
"Old. How long have we been here?"
"A little over an hour."
"How in the hell did you get me here, anyway?"
"You walked, with my help. You said a few words— don't you remember?"
Stillman shook his head tenderly.
"Rattled your brains a little. Jesus, you never should've tried that jump."
"Now you tell me," Stillman growled. "Any sign of Shambeau?"
"No. I tried tracking him, but all the Bar Seven riders came running when they heard the shots. They got after him and muddled his trail. There's no way in hell we can track him now, with all those yahoos running through these canyons."
"Hendricks?"
"Wilkinson buried him next to Condor."
"Shit," Stillman growled.
"Yep. They should've taken your advice and gone home."
"How many of 'em are left?" Stillman was probing his temples with his fingers, assessing the damage. Jody had wrapped a bandage around bis head, over several wounds pitting his forehead. His face burned with shallow gashes, which Jody had apparently cleaned with the whiskey bottle and rag sitting nearby.
"Four. Falk, Wilkinson, Donny Olnan, and Milt Polly."
Stillman chuffed a mirthless laugh and dug his makings pouch from his shirt pocket "Well, we'll see how long they remain four. Here, roll me a smoke, will you, son? I don't think my fingers are up to taking instructions from my brain just yet."
"Sure," Jody said, going to work on the cigarette. "Then I'll build you a fire. Now that you're awake, I'll see if there's any trails the Bar Seven men haven't soured."
"Forget that I want you to go on home now."
Young Harmon's face blanched with disbelief. "What?"
"I appreciate your coming along with me, boy, and helping me track. But the tracking's over. Hell, Shambeau's trackin' us!"
"Ben, I'm—"
"Don't argue with me. I'm not taking any chances on you getting hurt. I promised Crystal I'd send you back to her and your son in one piece, and I aim to keep my promise."
"Forget it, Ben."
The lad's harsh retort dumbfounded Stillman. "What's that?"
"You heard me. You can just wipe the notion right out of your mind. I'm not leavin' this job until it's done."
"Now, wait—"
"No, you wait," Jody said pointedly, his jaw hard, his eyes resolute. "You aren't sendin' me home like some stall-fed tenderfoot. I'm stayin' here with you, and I'm gonna see this thing through to the end, and that's final." Jody crouched on his heels, returning Stillman's stare. He didn't so much as blink.
Angry, but knowing there was nothing he could do short of knocking the kid out, tying him over his horse, and spanking the buckskin home, Stillman gave a weary sigh and brought his cigarette to his lips, drawing deeply. As he exhaled, he grumbled, "You sure have your old man's ornery streak—I'll say that for you."
"Thank you," Jody said with a grin. "Now I'll start gathering brush for that fire."
As he started off, Stillman called after him, his tone surly, "Stay close. Shambeau could be anywhere. Keep your eyes peeled and your gun handy."
Jody turned, frowning. "What are we gonna do if we don't track him?"
"Wait."
"Huh?"
"We're gonna wait right here. He'll either come to us or his shooting will lead us to him."
Jody gathered the brush and branches and built a small fire while Stillman dozed, trying to clear out the cobwebs. The hours passed slowly. Jody drank coffee and played solitaire. Later, he gathered some twine from his saddlebags, fashioned a snare, and disappeared, reappearing an hour later with a fat rabbit, which he roasted on sticks over the fire.
It was nearly five o'clock, and he and Stillman were eating hungrily when
they heard several soft clicks coming from the mouth of the canyon. Stillman dropped his supper, raked his gun from his holster, and swung toward the noise.
He chuckled and depressed the hammer as the deer, a white-tailed doe, turned quickly and bolted back down the canyon, its hooves clattering on the rocks and gravel.
"Damn near gave me a heart stroke," Jody said, setting his Winchester back down beside him.
They'd just begun eating again when they heard a shot.
Both men reached for their guns and froze. The rifle report had come from at least a half mile away. They looked cautiously around for several seconds.
"What do you suppose?" Jody said, tentative.
Stillman waited, listening. Then softly: "I don't know. He might've gotten one of the Bar Seven, or they might've gotten him. But let's sit tight. I have a feeling there's going to be more shots where that one came from."
He was right. About a half hour before sunset, all hell broke loose in the direction of the river.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE SHOOTING REMAINED constant and heated, and Stillman and Jody headed for its source through several ravines and across a wide park descending toward the Missouri. They knew they were getting close when they heard the Bar 7 men yelling to each other and the whacks and whines of the slugs.
Stillman and Jody tied their horses to cottonwoods and climbed a butte. Peering through a notch in the butte top, Stillman peered across the sagey flat below. Shambeau's Sharps buffalo rifle exploded and puffed smoke high up on another butte, in a nest of rocks from which the split stump of an old cottonwood protruded.
On Stillman's right were two Bar 7 men. Shambeau had them trapped in a small stable partially dug out of a brushy knoll. The knoll was behind the men who hunkered behind their dead horses in the makeshift corral. A third man—Avery Wilkinson, it appeared—lay dead just outside the split cottonwood logs of the corral fence. Blood shone in a gaping wound between his shoulder blades.
Looking farther west, Stillman saw an adobe and log cabin with a sod roof. Apparently, the Bar 7 men had been about to hole up in the cabin for the night.
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