Along The Fortune Trail (7 page)

H
omer and Reuben Taylor led the spontaneous welcoming yard party at the ranch, which included everyone currently on the premises. They all poured out of the house as supper was about to be served. Sammy felt slightly embarrassed that such a fuss was being made over him, but nevertheless enjoyed the attention and was glad to see all the crew at once. After five minutes of hellos and well wishes, the boys all drifted back in, mindful that they were starving after a long afternoon of work. Homer, Reuben, and Jacqueline remained with Sammy, while Lundy put the team up.

Sammy politely, but adamantly, refused the Taylor brothers’ suggestion that he finish his convalescence in the main house, a sprawling log structure that had separate wings for Homer and Reuben, and also had a number of other guestrooms that went mostly unused. “I appreciate the offer, but I'm healin’ up in the bunkhouse … otherwise the boys will think I'm a royal loafer.”

“Suit yourself,” Homer answered in his relaxed, lazy drawl.

Reuben added his final thought on the matter. “You'd probably be more comfortable in the house … if you change your mind. Supper's on, let's eat.” The two brothers headed for the house as a fiery sunset hung along the ridge of the bluffs.

Jacqueline took more offense at the refusal than either of the Taylor brothers, and she looked at Sammy with a mixture of concern and anger. “I can look after you much easier if you're in the house … not to mention keep you fed up till you're good and healthy.”

Keeping the crew fed and healthy had been Jacqueline's stock and trade for the better part of two decades. Her hair was salt and pepper now, held regularly in a bun with a silver hairpin her mother had given her when she was a girl. Married at sixteen, she had three children by the age of twenty, and was widowed at twenty-six when her husband was killed by lightning. Her youngest child, a girl, had died of cholera a year later, leaving Jacqueline with her twin sons and an uncertain future. She had seen the poster in town advertising for a cook/house manager and went to work for the Taylor brothers, who welcomed her and her boys into their young operation, employing the boys as helpers in a variety of jobs. Ten years later, the young men told their mother they would write regularly, and struck out for California hoping to make their fortune in one of the many opportunities they had heard about word-of-mouth. True to their promise, they wrote often, but had yet made little more than a small living as laborers in a freighting company. They were, however, happy and optimistic that they would eventually be in business for themselves and be able to set their mother up in a life of ease.

Sammy looked into Jacqueline's brown eyes and said reassuringly, “I'll be just fine. I'm more at home in the bunkhouse, and I don't want to be any extra work for you. Fact, I'll be doin’ whatever I can to help out, since I'm not supposed to be on a horse for a while.”

Jacqueline raised her eyebrows. “I know you're a hard worker, Sammy. With you, I'm worried you'll be trying to do too much too soon. Don't you let those boys goad you into doing something before you're ready. Now come and eat.” Her stern tone indicated her seriousness on the matter. She suddenly turned and headed off in the direction of the kitchen, as if she remembered something unattended on the stove.

Sammy looked after her, realizing again that in many ways she had been like a mother to him, and he loved her for it. “Yes, ma'am. I'll take it slow till I'm good and healthy,” he called out to her just before she disappeared into the house. He stood alone for a minute looking around the ranch yard, taking it all in and understanding that his life there might come to an end. Ten thousand dollars would change things. He imagined a spread of his own in a picturesque setting and thought about life's possibilities. He thought about Jenny.

Sammy gazed at the remaining sunset as a cold breeze blew several snowflakes around the yard, one of them landing on his face and prompting him to remember that winter was beginning. He knew he had a lot of thinking and planning and recovering to do. His life was getting ready to go a new direction, all because of a chance encounter with someone who tried to kill him. He suddenly prayed for forgiveness and wisdom, knowing that he'd had to kill Lonny Ballantine, but hoping that in the future he'd have enough wisdom to avoid having to repeat such an action. Sammy also knew that some circumstances were beyond wisdom, so he also prayed for strength and luck.

“What are you doin’ standin’ out here by yourself?” Lundy asked, having emerged from the barn and walking at a brisk pace as he brushed hay and trail dust off himself. He stopped in front of Sammy, who had a mildly thoughtful look on his face. “You all right, son? You need a hand in?”

Sammy regained a glint of alertness in his eyes. “No … I can sure enough get to
that
table.”

“Well, let's get to it before the rest of them boys clean out the fixins’,” Lundy declared as he headed for the door.

S
upper was always an event at the Twin T., mostly because Jacqueline became a legendary cook, and there was always enough to bloat half the country. Multiple platters, serving bowls, gravy boats, biscuit baskets, and pitchers circulated up and down a twenty-foot table with the speed and precision of team roping. While each man loaded his plate and kept the supply chain racing, the conversation was alive and peppery about the day's events. The talking tapered off as feasting became the priority, but picked up again during the brief intermission between supper and dessert. Homer would press the head of the brass wind-up turtle that sat on the table at his place. It emitted a ring that signaled Jacqueline and her helpers, Lucilla and Raquel, that phase two was ready to begin. The women would emerge from the kitchen like an army, quickly clearing the table and replacing it with the night's dessert, which usually included pie or cake and plenty of strong, fresh coffee.

On this night, the conversation had been steady. There was a lot to catch up on and the men were curious about Sammy's whole ordeal. J.P. Stover asked the question that brought the news right to the front. “You hear anymore news ‘bout them two?” The question seemed innocent enough, but drew a couple of looks to J.P. before all eyes turned to Sammy.

Sammy glanced at Lundy and took a slow, deep breath. His tone was measured as his eyes drifted around the table, making momentary contact with each man's face. “As a matter of fact, Sheriff Ritter caught us on the trail today. He said the man I killed robbed a train up in Colorado last June. His name was Lonny Ballantine.” Sammy took a sip of coffee, then finished with the words that landed like an anvil in the middle of the table. “Ballantine murdered the train engineer, so the railroad owner put up a ten thousand dollar reward for him … dead or alive.”

The room stopped for a moment. Homer Taylor held his pie fork up as if he were holding the bible. “Greg Ritter told you that?”

“That's what he said,” Sammy replied.

Seeing the subject was open, Lundy jumped in. “The instructions say Sammy has to collect it in Denver … personally, from the railroad head. I believe he wants to thank young Mister Winds in person for doing away with the man that murdered his engineer. Greg said the engineer was a short timer … getting ready to retire.”

“Well that's a hell of a thing,” Reuben Taylor opined. “You did the world a favor, son. Seems you're a man who's got a mountain of thinking to do.”

“That's pretty much all I've been doin’ since I found out. It sort of feels like finding the mother lode on the edge of a cliff. Gettin’ at it might be treacherous. Hope you don't mind if I ask you all advice from time to time … while I'm working on this.” Sammy paused and scooped a last bite of pie on to his fork, then delivered it to his mouth.

The other ranch hands, who had been respectfully silent while Homer, Reuben, Lundy, and Sammy led the conversation, now all chimed in their willingness to dispense advice, if asked. “You bet.” “Sure.” “Hope I know somethin’ of use.” The replies flew from around the table.

Sammy looked around the room, feeling at ease with the familiarness of the Twin T. The faces around the table had changed over the years, some men staying only long enough to build a stake toward the next grand adventure, and others lasting for years. Aside from the Taylor brothers and Jacqueline, only Lundy, J.P. Stover, and Franklin Edward had been at the T. all of Sammy's years. They were the senior men of the outfit and ran the show, but commanded no more respect than Sammy, who earned everyone's with his hard work, cowboy skills, wisdom, and knowledge. Sammy was special, and folks knew it.

“It's good to be back. I was gettin’ cabin fever at Doc's.”

“Good to see you, amigo.” “Welcome back.” “Great to have you back,” rang out from around the table. Sammy suddenly felt the effects of the day's travel, his eyelids heavy and his body yearning to stretch out in sleep.

T
he next morning Sammy felt as if he'd been dragged the twenty-five miles from town back to the T. Appalled at how weak and stiff the wagon trip had left him, he spent the early morning in the bunkhouse, reading old western catalogues, his mind consumed with anger about his condition as he mindlessly turned the pages. The boys were long gone for the day's work, and his greatest desire was simply to be part of the action.

Jacqueline knocked and entered the bunkhouse for the second time that morning. “Have you got an appetite yet?”

Sammy had declined two hours earlier, but knew his recovery would be a lot faster if he were eating. “I'm gonna put this body to work just as fast as I can, so I guess I better be feedin’ it on a regular basis. I just can't eat very much yet.”

“That will come to an end soon. I'll bring you out a plate.” She turned for the door.

“No, no,” Sammy said, rising gingerly from the chair. “I'll come on in.”

His incapacity with food did end soon. Sammy forced his eating for the next several days and stretched his stomach so much that he could eat like a starved man inside of a week. After one of his belly-expanding conquests of beef stew, biscuits, and two pieces of chocolate cake, he felt like some tobacco and a rocking chair in front of the bunkhouse might set the world perfectly right.

He hadn't had a chew of tobacco since the episode at the Frontier, thinking he'd quit for a while since it had been his nickname that started the whole thing. As usual, he was very ambitious about how much he could stuff in his cheek. So he bit off a sizable hunk of the tobacco stick and slowly rocked while contemplating the beauty of it all. A few moments later, he let loose with a stream of juice that landed directly on a hoof print he was aiming at and felt momentary pride at the resumption of a skill.

Then quite suddenly, the sky began to spin and his neck and ears felt flush with the onset of what he knew was coming next. He stood up and took two quick steps to the hitching post, grabbing it with both hands and leaning over it as the first violent spasm hit. The tobacco shot out and was immediately followed by the beef stew, biscuits, and chocolate cake in several more heaves. It seemed to come out in three courses, although it looked nothing like when he had eaten it, except for a couple of distinct bits of carrots and a few visible peas. “Son of a bitch!” He exclaimed to himself as he worked to steady his breathing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and weakly sat back down in the rocker. His ribs were on fire from the convulsions.

Sammy was mad all over again, the pain reminding him of his condition and fixing his resolve to get healed up. After several minutes, his ribs eased up and his head cleared of the tobacco induced dizziness. He collected his gun belt and headed slowly down the path that led along the outer corrals and fed into a lane of cottonwoods. Their golden leaves had mostly fallen, covering the ground like a mosaic of time and color.

Sammy's stride lengthened, as his muscles warmed and his sense of mission increased. He turned on to Old Angus Trail, named by him for a dog he'd been given shortly after he'd arrived at the T. those years ago. The trail led across open meadow, flanked by cedar and pine along the well-worn path, visible in the short grass of autumn. After leading through a brook that flowed seasonally at the base of the bluffs, the trail climbed as a series of switchbacks up the side of the bluffs behind the T. and came out on top to a wondrous, sweeping view of the ranch in the valley below.

He and his dog, Angus, had made the trip countless times during their six years together, always getting to the top and running until they reached the ancient tree that stood at the uppermost point like a sentry to the sky. Now he sweated from fatigue in the coolness of the fall day, as he hiked the trail and remembered the dog he had so cared for.

Angus had been a short-haired daschund, who'd eventually come to resemble a small, black hog more than a dog, primarily because the boys delighted in feeding him scraps on a regular basis. His short legs limited his speed and prevented him from working the cattle with any regularity. But he showed a fierce determination in the first several years, chasing the strays out of ditches and the brush, barking incessantly all the while. Mostly, he roamed around the ranch yard and barked at anything he thought might be moving anywhere in the New Mexico Territory.

The regular trips up the bluffs had kept Angus in some sort of shape, although that battle seemed to be going badly during his last year. In the end, it was a snakebite that took him, an ordeal that Sammy thought his dog might survive. Angus had held on for two days. The memories seemed distant now, which Sammy was strangely grateful for. It had been a crushing blow to him when Angus died.

Sammy reached the top of the bluffs, his thighs burning and his lungs pulling for air. Each rapid breath renewed the steady ache in his ribs. He walked the final quarter mile to the ancient tree at a steady pace, his breathing coming more under control and his legs recovering a bit. A sense of happiness filled him from just making it to the spot where he and his dog had so effortlessly arrived many times before.

Sammy looked with reverence at the century-old tree. It stood fixed like an immovable object of defiance with twisted, gnarled branches that had yielded any sign of life decades before. The carving in the trunk looked as clear as when he had made it seven years earlier. He said it out loud as he read it: Angus. Then he looked down at the large piece of flagstone that served as a marker for where he had buried his dog. His eyes glistened with the vivid recollection of his dog, who once more flooded his mind. “Run through my heart, Angus, run through my heart,” he said, softly, then turned and began heading back.