A Gown of Spanish Lace (17 page)

At the edge of the Indian camp the saddles were to be slipped off Laramie’s horses and transferred to the backs of new mounts. This too was part of arrangements made by White Eagle. Then Laramie would send his own horses on without a rider. He hoped it would be some time before the trackers would discover that the horses were traveling alone. Laramie was counting on the big bay—stolen from a local ranch—deciding to return to its home.

With the gang off on a false trail, Laramie planned to double back, pick up Ariana, and head out in the opposite direction. With all his heart he hoped that the plan would work and that it would buy him enough time to make an escape.

“If I don’t make it,” he had told White Eagle reluctantly, “try to take the girl back to your camp. Better she be the captive wife of one man than to be left at the mercy of the gang.”

White Eagle nodded.

The two friends shook hands solemnly. Both knew the explosive nature of what they were attempting to do.

“You could die, my friend,” said White Eagle.

Laramie nodded.

“That may be necessary,” he said without emotion, then added thoughtfully, “But I plan to stay alive. A dead man won’t be of much help to her.”

White Eagle said nothing.

“I think all is ready,” Laramie concluded.

“Must be soon,” said White Eagle. “Spring stirring. Soon snow go. Ground go soft. Travel be hard.”

“Three risings of the sun,” agreed Laramie. “We should have everything in place by then. Three days. I’ll have her come to you.”

“She wear buckskins.”

“I’ll be sure. I’ll git to her the things you provided.”

“Three sun risings.”

Laramie agreed and the two friends parted.

Only two of those sun risings had passed when Laramie’s worst fears were upon him. It all started innocently enough. The men had just lined up in the chow line to fill their plates with Rawley’s beans and biscuits, and Skidder took a sniff of the mess and turned up his nose.

Laramie, who was eating again with the men so as not to draw undue attention, saw the scowling face but thought little of it. The men often complained about the fare.

But Rawley was in no mood to have his food insulted.

“What’s the matter,” he snapped, “ya expecting ham hock and sweet taters?”

“Well—iffen I was, I sure ain’t now,” said Skidder with a snarl.

“Iffen ya think ya can do better, why don’t you fix the food—”

“Food?” snorted Skidder. “Ya call this food? Pig wouldn’t et this slop.”

“Pig? Guess it would too. You’ve been ettin’ it fer a fair piece now.”

Laramie saw Skidder’s face and knew that trouble was coming. The others saw it too. There was a changing of positions as everyone eased out of the line of fire.

Will intervened. “You fellas have a burr under yer saddle, take it outside,” was all he said.

Skidder, the plate of food still in his hand and a mean look on his face, nodded his head toward the door.

Laramie hoped Rawley would let it pass. Would just turn his back on the testy gun-toter. Everyone in the room knew that Rawley was no match for Skidder.

But Rawley was not looking for a way to back off. With one quick flick of his hand he upended the extended plate, splashing its contents over Skidder’s face and down the front of his leather vest.

The fight did not make it outside. A hand flashed, Skidder’s gun flamed, and Rawley fell forward, clutching his chest. A movement in the corner brought Skidder spinning around just as James, Rawley’s sidekick, cleared the gun from his holster.

It was too slow. Skidder’s second shot caught the man in the abdomen before he could even pull the trigger.

“Drop it,” roared Will, his chair falling to the floor with a crash as he leaped to his feet.

Skidder let his gun hand lower to his side. But the defiance did not leave his eyes.

“I don’t take kindly to a man shootin’ up my quarters,” the boss said, menace in his voice. “An’ I don’t take kindly to losin’ two good men jest before a planned job. Seems to me ya coulda et yer beans an’ kept yer mouth shut—like the rest of us. Now wipe ’em off yer face and tend to those men.”

Will picked up his chair, swore when he saw the broken leg, and jerked forward a log stool.

“Broke the only chair in the place,” he mumbled angrily, still glaring at Skidder.

From the corner of the room, Laramie heard a groan. He pushed his way through the cluster of milling men and bent over James. The man was still breathing, but he had been hit hard.

“Help me git this man to my cabin,” he said to Curly.

Curly’s hands shook as he set aside his bottle of whiskey and bent to help lift the man.

All through the evening hours Laramie tried to stop the bleeding. Outside he could hear the scrape of the shovel in frozen ground. Skidder had been given the job of digging the grave for Rawley. Laramie hoped there wouldn’t be one needed for James as well. Once he thought of going for Ariana. Maybe she could at least say a prayer for the dying man.

But Laramie decided against it. It wouldn’t be safe. Besides, a girl like Ariana shouldn’t have to be exposed to such horrors. The men in the camp were used to seeing men die—it would be a totally new thing for the young girl. One that could fill her sleep with nightmares—like those kinds of events had done for Laramie when he was a kid.

He made James as comfortable as he could and hoped that the man would make it to see another morning. Then Laramie thought of his mother’s Bible. Carefully he took it from its hiding place and thumbed through the pages. He found a spot heavily marked in his mother’s handwriting and began to read, his voice low but clear.

The passage had nothing to do with death or dying—or of preparing oneself for the possibility. It was the story of Jesus calling the fishermen away from their nets. “Follow me,” He had said, and his mother had, sometime in the past, written carefully beside the passage, “I have decided to follow Him, too. It has brought such peace and joy to my being.”

After Laramie finished the story he read on, page after page. He didn’t know if the man lying on his bed could hear the words, but he himself needed them, even if James did not.

This life, this way of living made no sense. No sense at all. He had always had questions about it. Now he was more sure than ever. He would have wanted out even if the girl hadn’t come into the camp. He had always wanted out. He realized that now. He had never really fit. There was something that had always held him back.

A sudden idea occurred to him, making his spine tingle with the thought. Could it possibly be that this mother—this unknown person in his background—had somehow influenced his life? But how? Was this unseen, unknown God of hers holding him in check? He did not know. He wished he knew. He wished he knew more about this God. He was sure that Ariana had some of the answers, but he dared not go to her. He was sure to be watched. Everyone would be watched. The whole camp was like a powder keg—about to explode. Given time they would all destroy one another—and the girl too.

Laramie turned back to the Book in his hand. It was the only thing that seemed to make any sense.

Along about midnight he heard footsteps on the path. He recognized Sam’s step; then there was a bump at the door and Sam pushed his way in. Laramie was glad to see him. He welcomed the man’s company.

“How’s he doin’?” Sam asked simply.

Laramie nodded toward the man, whose breathing was becoming more shallow. He made no comment. Sam could see for himself.

Sam pulled up a stool and sat down.

Laramie let his gaze settle back on the man occupying his bed. “Was James his first name—or his last?” he asked quietly.

Sam shrugged. “I dunno,” he replied—then gave a little snort. “Most likely weren’t neither,” he said. “Coulda took it jest ’cause he liked it. Maybe borrowed it offa Jesse. Mighta made him feel big.”

Laramie looked back at the man. They really knew very little about him—except that he wasn’t fast enough with a gun.

Silence.

“Ya been to see the girl?” asked Sam.

Laramie looked up in surprise and shook his head.

“Figure she might be scared blue,” went on Sam. “Bound to have heard the shots.”

“She’ll be sleepin’ now,” remarked Laramie.

“Iffen she is, she’s in better shape then the rest of us,” replied Sam, reaching for his wad of chewing tobacco.

“Would ya mind lookin’ in on her?” asked Laramie.

“Why don’t you go?”

Laramie was silent for a number of minutes.

“Don’t want to drag her in on this,” he said finally. “Skidder’s been lookin’ fer a chance to draw on me fer months.”

Sam chewed and spit.

“Yer faster,” he said at last, avoiding Laramie’s gaze.

His eyes narrowed. Was that the way Sam reasoned too? That a man, even a man like Skidder, had no value? That a snuffed-out life was nothing more than another grave to dig?

The thought troubled Laramie. He got up from his place by the bed and began to restlessly pace the cabin.

At last he wheeled to face the man he had known since he was old enough to recall anything at all.

“Is thet what this is all about?” he asked frankly. “Was thet girl brought in here to force a showdown ’tween Skidder an’ me?”

Sam said nothing.

“Was it, Sam?” Laramie demanded. “Tell me. Was it?”

“Yer pa was jest anxious fer ya to…to act a man,” replied Sam, and he spit into the corner.

Laramie’s face blanched white. Then a red stain of anger began to flush his cheeks.

“Thet’s ’bout the lowest thing I ever heard,” he muttered angrily. “The lowest. To bring a girl—why didn’t he jest call me out hisself?”

“Now, Kid—yer pa jest wanted ya to use yer gun ’cause he didn’t want some low-liver shootin’ ya in the back.”

“Why? Why? Am I any better than—than Rawley—or James? Is my life worth more than—?”

“Don’t go gittin’ all in a knot. No harm—”

“No harm? What do you think this little scheme has done to her? Holed up all these months in the camp of—of no-good desperadoes? What do ya—?”

“Ya could have shortened it some,” said Sam with no apologies.

Laramie just stood and stared.

“By killin’ a man?” he demanded, his voice like steel. “I could have freed her up iffen I’d jest—pulled my Colt and killed a man? And what would thet have accomplished. Kill one—then there’d be another—an’ another.”

He lifted a hand and pushed his Stetson back in agitation.

Sam shrugged. “It gits easier,” he said casually. “Jest the first one thet bothers a man much.”

Laramie stared, anger making his eyes glitter.

“Yer pa was jest thinkin’ of you. Didn’t want ya leavin’ a string of one-arm gunslingers to track ya down—”

“So I shoot ’em all?”

The words were spoken in vehemence. Sam did not respond. The silence hung heavy in the log cabin.

“I don’t think so, Sam,” Laramie finally went on evenly, his control back again. “I don’t think so. I…I’m at the place where…I’d be willin’ to die fer her, but I…I haven’t come to the place where I’d be willin’ to kill in cold blood fer her. An’ the more I read in thet Bible, the more sure I am of thet fact.”

Sam’s eyes widened. It was clear to Laramie that the words surprised and shocked him. “Thet girl been fillin’ ya with Bible talk?” he asked, and Laramie could tell he was upset.

“Not a’tall,” he drawled. “Been readin’ it fer myself—an’ fer James here.”

“Where’d you git a Bible?”

“You gave it to me.”

Sam looked about to explode. “I never did no sech thing an’ you know—”

“Sure you did,” replied Laramie. “In thet trunk—of my ma’s.”

“Yer ma’s Bible?”

Laramie only nodded.

Sam chewed on his mustache, then spit in the corner.

“So what can you tell me about her, Sam?” Laramie asked quietly.

Sam’s head jerked up. “Oh no,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I got nothin’ to say. Nothin’. Ain’t no business of mine. It’s yer pa’s place to—” He stopped, looked at Laramie, then spit again.

There was further silence as Sam continued working on his chaw of tobacco. At length he looked up. “So yer holdin’ yer position?” he asked frankly.

Laramie nodded again, his eyes thoughtful, his jaw set.

“Well, Kid,” Sam said as he slowly lifted himself from the chunk of log. “I wouldn’t give her much chance of gittin’ back to life as she knew it, then. Yer pa’s ’bout got his mind made up—an’ it’s ’bout like a rusty steel trap. Once shut—never git it open.”

A slight moan from the corner cot caught their attention. Even as Laramie moved toward the bed he saw that the wounded man had taken his last breath.

Laramie stood over him, feeling helpless and sick at his stomach. He never had been able to accept the sight of a man who’d died because of a bullet in his stomach.

He turned away from the bed, one hand raised to slowly tip back the brim of his Stetson. His knees felt weak, his thoughts were jumbled in anger and confusion. It was so senseless. So brutal.

He heard the sound of scraping as Sam pushed himself up from his block seat and onto his feet. Laramie wondered if the sight of the wasted man was making Sam feel sick inside also.

When he turned to look at the older man, Sam was already moving slowly toward the door. Just before he exited the cabin he turned and spit into the corner. “Guess I’d better tell Skidder to git his shovel out agin,” he said. He left the room without further comment.