Dead Man's Trail (9781101606957) (23 page)

Chapter 32

The hovel sat at the edge of Belle Fourche, along the steep, narrow bank of Hay Creek.

Yakima couldn't see the place very well until Wolf had clomped across the creek via a plank bridge buried in new-fallen snow. The wind blew snow through the gauzy twilight, obscuring what appeared to be a very small ranch-stead with a log barn little larger than most cabins, a single corral, and a shack that was little more than vertical boards over which tar paper had been tacked. It had a second story with a steeply slanting east-side roof and a single unlit window. The roof did not appear to be shingled under the snow mantling it.

The torn edges of the tar paper rattled in the strong wind that blew the snow against the house and the barn, causing the hovel's rickety frame to creak precariously. There was a small lean-to stable off the cabin's right side and what appeared to be a chicken coop behind that. The door was on the stable side of the cabin.

Yakima urged Wolf up to the shack. Its windows were lit with flickering candles, and they laid a vague yellow light on the snowy ground before it. A pine Christmas wreath was nailed to the front door, and it flipped and flapped in the wind.

Yakima swung heavily down from the saddle, wincing against the snow and the wind blasting him. He walked back to his saddlebags and pulled the gold sack out of the left pouch. He hefted the pouch and looked at the cabin. His heart felt heavier in his chest than the gold felt in his hands.

Letting Wolf's reins droop to the ground, the wind jostling them, Yakima walked up to the front door. It consisted of five six-foot-long vertical pine boards and a wooden handle. He knocked on the door. He had to knock once more; a few minutes later, a woman's silhouetted head appeared in the window right of the door, looking out.

She pulled her head back. Yakima thought that, seeing a big half-breed out here in this weather, she'd likely shotgun him through the door. But then the door scraped open a few inches, and the woman's chocolate-colored face appeared in the crack.

“I have something for you, Mrs. Clifton,” he said loudly so she could hear him above the wind. He bounced the gold lightly in his hands. “It's from your husband.”

She stared at him. He saw her eyes widen slightly. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped back, drawing the door half-open, beckoning with one hand. Yakima stepped into the cabin, and she closed the door quickly, having to ram a shoulder against it to latch it. Then she stepped back away from him, staring up at him warily, spreading a dark hand against her chest.

She was a slight black woman in a relatively clean gray dress that was older than the decorative green and red stitching she'd added to the high-buttoned neck and the sleeves. Her kinky hair was pulled straight back and secured behind her head. A fine-boned, handsome woman of around thirty, Yakima thought.

“From . . . Delbert . . . ?” she said, dropping her eyes to the sack in the half-breed's hands.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said grimly.

They were in the kitchen crudely furnished with pine shelves, a small black range, and a square eating table that had turned silver from scrubbing. The table was set with simple tin plates, cups, and wooden-handled forks and knives. A large iron pot bubbled on the stove, filling the room with the smell of rabbit stew. Behind a wall partition to his left, hushed voices rose. A pair of dark eyes appeared around the edge of the wall. They widened when they found Yakima, and the boy drew his head back, muttering to someone else in that part of the shack with him.

“And Delbert . . . ?” The corner of the woman's eyes were wrinkled with trepidation.

She knew even before Yakima said it in the best way he could—simply and clearly. “He's dead, ma'am.”

Those eyes held his as though beseeching and at the same time defying him to continue. They turned golden with a thin sheen of tears.

“He died saving my life and the life of my partner. He was on his way home . . . with this.” Yakima walked over and placed the sack on the table. “That's when he died. This here is yours. Probably more money than you'll know what to do with at first, but”—he glanced around the humble dwelling, feeling the cold air seeping through cracks between the vertical wall boards—“you'll figure it out.”

Mrs. Clifton stood staring at him, silently sobbing.

Yakima walked over and wrapped his arms around her. He held her tightly for several minutes. Her silent crying racked her. When he pulled away from her, she sniffed, wiped tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands, and said, “Can you stay for supper, sir?”

“No.” Yakima squeezed her arms reassuringly. He glanced behind him, saw a little boy around ten and a girl of about twelve, both dressed in ragged dungarees and patched socks, staring at him from the entrance to the shack's little parlor area. Behind them was a tree only slightly taller and fuller than a sage shrub. It held three candles and a short string of popcorn.

“Your daddy saved my life. Don't ever forget him.”

He pinched his hat brim to the children and walked to the door. As he opened it and started out, Mrs. Clifton said, “Sir?”

Yakima stopped.

She frowned, tears still streaming down her cheeks from her glistening eyes, lips trembling. “What's your name?”

“I'm Yakima Henry.”

He went out, mounted up, and rode back across the bridge. He rode back through Belle Fourche, through the chill wind pelting him with snow. His heart still felt heavy, but it was getting lighter. He wished the same for the Cliftons, but that might take months, maybe years.

He rode down the little settlement's main street, heading south. The Butte County Hotel was on his right. It was the only business establishment in town with lit windows. A decorated Christmas tree stood inside the large front window of the three-story flophouse. Shadows moved around it. He could hear the jubilant strains of a fiddle and a banjo.

Pausing in the street, staring into the hotel, he could see the Rands dancing in front of the tree, near a popping fire in the hotel dining room's massive stone hearth. Mrs. O'Reilly was dancing with Elijah Weatherford. Charlie Adlard sat on a deep leather sofa, his injured ankle propped on a stool. Adlard had his hair greased and combed, and he wore a string tie over a checked shirt, and a corduroy jacket.

Yakima thought he looked fine. He thought they all looked fine. Vaguely, he wondered where Glendolene was. He hadn't said anything to her after he'd driven the stage into town, trailing his horse. He'd helped them all inside out of the building storm, and then he'd mounted Wolf and ridden over to the Clifton place, completing his mission.

He turned forward and started to boot Wolf again, but looked back at the hotel when he saw the front door open. Glendolene stepped out. She wore a red silk dress. The wind tossed it richly against her long legs. Around her slim neck was a bejeweled choker. Her hair was down, blowing in the wind. It shone in the light from the windows flanking her.

“Yakima?” she said, crossing her arms as she stopped at the edge of the broad front veranda. “Aren't you coming in?”

He shook his head. “I'm riding on.”

His heart was too heavy for Christmas. He'd flop in a sheltered ravine, continue heading south when the storm had blown itself out. He hoped the storm in himself would blow itself out soon, too. He doubted it. Despite the gold, Delbert Clifton's family weighed heavy on his shoulders.

“Yakima,” she called above the wind, leaning beseechingly over the porch rail, “this is no night to be out. Come on in and join us. It's Christmas!”

“I'll be riding on. Good luck to you, Glendolene. I'm sorry about all of it.”

He booted Wolf ahead. Halfway down the street, he kicked the stallion into a gallop. The large, dark buildings on both sides of the street slid past him. So did the lit cabins where families celebrated around food-laden tables and roaring fires. The stormy night swept him up and embraced him.

He heard the faint cry behind him:
“Yakima!”

But he did not hear what followed:
“The child is yours!”

He rode farther and farther into the cold, snowy night.

He did not look back.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

Frank Leslie
is the pseudonym of a prolific and acclaimed writer who has penned more than sixty fast-action Western novels. He lives in Colorado.