A Tale Out of Luck (29 page)
“That’s shapin’ up to be a pretty good hunch,” Hank said.
“There’s more,” Kenyon said. “Go ahead, Skeeter.”
“After I saw the wire, I started paying real close attention. In the old adobe house, Brennan showed me his deed to the Double Horn Ranch. Then he showed me his will. He’s got me down as the one to inherit the ranch when he’s gone. It was signed by witnesses and notarized, and everything. He was really trying to smooth-talk me into joining his outfit.”
“Well, did he succeed, or not?” Jay Blue demanded.
“Patience,
hermano
.”
“Just tell me you’re still one of us, Skeeter. Please tell me you’re back.”
“Just listen.” He uncocked his weapons, put one Colt revolver in his holster, and shoved the spare under his gun belt. “While I was pretending to look over the deed and the will, I was really looking at all the other papers scattered around on his desk. He doesn’t have a nice, neat desk like you,
Capitán
. It’s a mess. But I was looking for anything I might see, like that wire in the barn. I saw a bill of sale for some cattle, handwritten from a Dodge City buyer. I couldn’t see the whole piece of paper because it was sticking out from under some other junk, but I saw the brand drawn on the bill of sale. It was a little peak over a T. That seemed funny to me, because that ain’t the Double Horn brand. So, I remembered the brand. I told Brennan that I would accept his offer, but I had to go tell Captain Tomlinson and Jay Blue first that I wasn’t going to work at the Broken Arrow no more.”
“Were you going to tell us?” Hank asked. “Can’t say that I’d blame you for making that decision, the way we’ve treated you around here.”
“I didn’t know
what
to do. But all day yesterday, after we found Poli, I thought about that brand in my head. I figured out it was halfway between a Broken Arrow brand and Wes James’s WJ. I didn’t know what that meant yet, but then all hell broke loose in the saloon, and I had to make a decision. I didn’t really want to join the Double Horn outfit, but I decided I’d . . . Well, Mr. Kenyon says I
infiltrated
the outlaw gang. There was no way to tell you what I was doin’, Jay Blue. I just had to do it.”
“You were a step ahead of us all along,” Jay Blue admitted.
“I went back to the Double Horn and spent the night with those thugs. That’s a sorry bunch of bastards out there. Anyway, this morning, when Brennan—my long-lost daddy—went to the outhouse to take a crap, I got a look at that bill of sale with the funny brand on it and I saw that it was made out to a John Rafferty. That name shocked the hell out of me, because the captain told us that was Black Cloud’s name before he went Indian. So I stole that bill of sale with the Rafter T brand on it.”
“He secured the evidence,” Kenyon said, rather editorially.
“I secured the hell out of it,” Skeeter agreed. “I didn’t even know it was called a rafter at the time. I thought it was a tepee. Anyway, I told Brennan I wanted to start working some of the green-broke colts, since I was taking over the ranch, so I roped one out of the corral, saddled him up, and went for a ride.”
Matt Kenyon eased the hammers to the safety position on the double-barrel. “Skeeter rode straight to Luck and caught me before I left for Austin to gather my posse. He showed me the bill of sale. By that time, the ladies had received some telegrams describing the owner of the Rafter T brand as John Rafferty, six-foot-six, two-twenty, with a prominent scar on his left cheek. We put it all together and rode out here to set the record straight. All charges against you have been dropped, Captain Tomlinson. I, personally, along with some help from Max Cooper down at the Austin
Daily Statesman
, will see to it that your name will forever be cleared of any suspicion of past killings attributed to Black Cloud. Including the killing of my father, Jim Kenyon.”
Hank let out a huge sigh. “I guess that means you owe me an apology, Officer Kenyon.”
Kenyon paused, searching the room with his eyes. But then he jutted his chin. “Apologize for doing my duty? No, sir. You have to admit, you
were
the prime suspect.”
Hank stepped away from the table and drilled the officer with an unwavering glare. He approached Kenyon slowly until he stood a foot away. “You’ve got a point, Matt. It’s a point that could have got you shot, but it’s a good point. Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything, Captain.”
“When this Reconstruction government gives us our state back, and the Texas Rangers ride again, promise me you’ll wear the
cinco peso
. The Rangers could use a hardheaded bulldog like you. You’re just like your ol’ daddy.” He stuck his hand out.
Kenyon shook the captain’s hand, but had no words to speak just then.
Hank turned to Skeeter and gave him a hug a father would give an only son. “Thank God you’re back, Skeeter. That was a gutsy thing you did. You got some
cajones, mí hijo
. But, you know what we have to do now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got to ride over to the Double Horn Ranch and take your long-lost daddy down for murdering Policarpo, Wes James, Jim Kenyon, and two other Rangers. Not to mention all the rustlin’.”
“I know.”
“Are you with me, or against me?”
“I’m with you,
Capitán
. He ain’t no father of mine. You’ve been more of a daddy to me than he ever could have been.” He turned to look at the younger Tomlinson. “As for you, Jay Blue . . . You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re the only brother I’ve got. I’m sorry I took your gun. I didn’t have a choice.”
“And I’m sorry for the stupid things I said, Skeeter.” Jay Blue stuck his hand out. When Skeeter took it, he pulled his brother’s right shoulder against his own and clamped him there with his left arm. “I’m just glad you’re back.”
“Alright!” Hank announced. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll post guards in shifts tonight, and try to get some shut-eye. Tomorrow at dawn we’ll have a big breakfast. Then Officer Kenyon will deputize us all and we’ll ride over to the Double Horn and bring John Rafferty in alive or dead—along with every one of his outlaw cattle rustlers.”
Matt Kenyon nodded. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a good day for law and order in Texas.”
“Hey, Beto,” Skeeter said. “I know it ain’t normal . . . but can we have fried chicken for breakfast?”
A
LL NIGHT LONG
the drums had sounded as the moon, having risen full and round, shone down on the camp. It passed over the war dancers, adding its steady white glow to the flickers of a hundred blazing campfires in the village of tepees. The night was cold, but the dancing and the heat of the fires kept all the Noomah people charged with warmth.
The warriors had donned headdresses made from the horns of bison, the heads of wolves or lions, the antlers of deer. Most wove eagle feathers into their black braids. The feathers, like those affixed to their shields, would flutter with the speed of their horses, spoiling the aim of their enemies’ weapons. They had painted their faces with sacred designs and paraded through camp for all to see. After the parade, they had commenced dancing.
Now the full moon was nearing the western horizon, and the time came for the Original Wolf to silence the drums. The drummers had been watching him, waiting for his signal. He raised his hand, and all the drummers ended the beat together. Warm air burst from the nostrils and mouths of the dancers, the moonlight illuminating the breath clouds that drifted away to the Spirit Land. The warriors and their women, the children and elders who had managed to stay awake, the nearly grown boys who wished they could join the war party—all turned their eyes toward the Original Wolf.
“All night, the moon and the path of stars in the sky have showered us with blessings. We are strong, we are brave, and we are right to defend our country and seek vengeance on enemies who fight like cowards. Take up your lances and shields, your quivers and your guns, and fight today as our elders taught us: with courage, with brotherhood, with the medicine of our spirit guides. On this day, do not ask the spirits for glory. Ask them to lead us to a place where we can
take
some glory! To your warhorses, my brothers. I have spoken!”
War cries cut through the dry, predawn air and echoed off the bluff over the big river. The Wolf watched as the warriors turned away from the ground packed hard by the moccasins of all-night dancers, but his eyes were searching for Birdsong. He spotted her, standing near her grandfather’s lodge. The old man was there, too. The scowl never left that old shaman’s face, but he nodded once at the raid leader, then ducked into his tepee, leaving his granddaughter outside.
The Wolf walked to her. “It is time to ride. Time to fight.”
Her eyes looked as big as moons. “It is my duty to be braver than even you. You leave here to ride and shoot. I must wait. But I am able to do it, and I will reward you with many pleasures when you come home.”
The Wolf smiled. He kissed her, but not tenderly, for his heart was poised for plunder and combat. Then he turned away, and he did not look back.
Jubal sat down to the delicious aroma of eggs, beans, and tortillas that Luz had ready for him. He couldn’t wait to get back down to the pens and put the saddle on El Grullo
again. He had dreamt of it all last night. The silky strides of that proud steed, the fluid trot, the smooth canter—each gait felt the way a great gray crane looked gliding in for a landing at a favored fishing hole. He was indeed El Grullo
—
the Gray Crane—not just in his gray coloration but through his gift of flight.
He was fortunate to have met those two young cowboys. They had done most of the rough riding. Now it was up to Jubal to finish the training of the stallion who had once tried to stomp him to death.
He wolfed down his breakfast and kissed his beloved Luz, then marched for the door. “I aim to take that gray for quite a romp across the countryside today,” he announced. “Put some miles behind him.”
“I know!” she sang, her eyes rolling. “You love him more than me now. All night, in your sleep, you said, ‘Whoa! . . . Whoa!’” She turned back to her chores.
He stalked up behind her and grabbed her, making her squeal with surprise and delight. “I don’t love him more than I love you. That’s loco talk, woman. I just need somebody I can boss. Lord knows
you
won’t mind me.” He kissed her on the neck, then turned toward the cave opening and the frosty light of dawn.
He walked down to the pens to find Thirsty, the camel, and the Steel Dust Gray standing nose to nose across the cedar rails from each other as if they were having a conversation. Oddly enough, the two had become fast friends.
He took his time saddling the stallion. Steel Dust was still half-wild, after all, and required all Jubal’s caution and know-how to handle. As he left the home canyon at a trot, heading for the gap in the hills that led toward Fort Jennings, he looked back and noticed that Thirsty was lumbering along behind him.
He had seen and heard of male animals of different types becoming pals in this way before—elk and buffalo bulls who roamed together between mating seasons, male dogs and tomcats playing in the yard—but this had to be the oddest pairing he knew of: a camel and a killer stud.
“Oh, well, everybody needs a friend, I guess,” he had said, watching the gray’s ears swivel back his way when he spoke.
His heart sank a little when he thought about what he’d said. Not only for himself, but for Luz. They were the best of friends to each other, but a woman needed the friendship of other women, and Jubal had to admit that he was missing those two blasted idiot cowboys. That night in town was fun, too, with the music in the saloon and all—right up until the discovery of the old arrow and the news of the lost foreman. Jubal hoped the man had been found alive, but he had a bad feeling about the whole mess.
Steel Dust suddenly made a marvelously agile leap sideways, dodging some terror Jubal had failed to identify. He just barely managed to stay seated, and decided he’d better keep his mind on his task if he didn’t want to watch the mustang go galloping back to favorite haunts, carrying his best saddle.
He arrived at the gap and guided Steel Dust up the steep trail to the lookout point so he could get a view of the country to the east before he went gallivanting blindly around on a green-broke stallion. Thirsty chose to remain at the bottom of the trail to wait at the gap. At the overlook, Jubal sat in the saddle as Steel Dust caught some wind. He watched the country through his telescope awhile, but it wasn’t easy, as Steel Dust was still antsy under the saddle and didn’t like just standing. He was about to ride on when he caught a brief look at a large party of riders streaming over a ridge, heading toward Double Horn Creek, and riding fast. There was too much flash among the horses to be anything but Indian pinto ponies on the move.
“Damn,” he said. This looked like the revenge raid he had dreaded. A party that size might even take on the settlement of Luck, Texas. But before those warriors got to town, they would pass the headquarters of the two biggest ranches in the area. The Double Horn first, then the Broken Arrow, home of those two young cowhands who had talked him into catching the marvelous beast he straddled now.
The least he could do was to gallop over to Fort Jennings and tell the troops which way he had seen the war party turn. After that . . . well, he would make that decision when he came to it. Right now Steel Dust had plenty of bottom left and needed a good training run anyway. Even Thirsty was still game.
Jubal carefully urged the stallion down the slope. “Like I said earlier, ol’ hoss, everybody needs a friend, I reckon. Let’s git.”
H
ANK TOMLINSON
peered through the brush to take in a clear view of the Double Horn Ranch headquarters. Officer Matt Kenyon pulled rein to his right, Skeeter and Jay Blue to his left. The rest of the men waited behind.
“Skeeter,” Hank said in a low voice, “when you
infiltrated
the Double Horn gang, how many men did they have there on hand?”
