Dorothy Garlock (9 page)

“We ort ta talk ta him, Willa.”

“It’s up to you, Charlie. I’ve never known a man who drinks himself senseless to be dependable. From what Mr. Byers says, he’s not only a drunk, but a brawler.”

“Don’t reckon I meant that, ma’am. Man’s got to stand up for hisself out here.”

“Where is he?” Charlie asked.

“Sleepin’ it off in the barn. If yore bound to talk to him, come on. Don’t be surprised if’n he comes up outta that hay a fightin’ ’n’ swearin’ a blue streak.”

Willa and Charlie followed Mr. Byers toward the barn. They passed the teamsters who had carried Gil Frank to his grave and who now tipped their hats politely to Willa. The double doors of the barn stood open. A whiskered old man with a pitchfork came out of one of the stalls when they entered.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said hastily and snatched off his battered hat.

“Hello, Mr. Rusty. Charlie and I want to thank you for coming to the burial.”

The old man’s mouth worked up and down. Without teeth his lips almost touched his nose.

“It warn’t nothin’. Nothin’ a’tall.”

Willa smiled at him. “Yes, it was. We appreciate your taking the time.”

“Where’s Smith, Rusty?”

“Smith? He’s back thar in a stall a sleepin’ it off. He ain’t going’ to like bein’ waked up,” Rusty said when Byers started down the aisle between the stalls. “Ya know how he gets. He’s liable to come up shootin’.”

They came to a stall where a powerful Appaloosa stood, ears peaked, nostrils flaring. He snorted and pawed the ground when they stopped to look over the rails of the opposite stall.

“Even his goddamn horse is meaner’n all get out,” Byers grumbled.

Smith lay on his side, his head resting on his bent arm. His hat was over his face, but Willa could see a thatch of thick blond hair long enough to curl down over his ears. He was
tall and on the lanky side. He wore a faded flannel shirt, britches so ragged that you could see the skin on his knees, and what were commonly called well-worn—down-at-the-heel—boots. Nestled close to his chest, with his fingers curled around the butt, was a six-gun.

6

^“
S
mith, wake up.”

Byers lifted the bars holding the stall gate and folded it back. When Smith didn’t stir, he yelled again and kicked the bottom of his boots.

Quick as a striking snake, Smith came up out of the hay with the gun in his hand. The growth of dark beard on his face was in sharp contrast to his hair. His eyes squinted against the light and his lips drew back in a snarl. He looked dangerous. Willa was reminded of a vicious cornered animal. She and Charlie sprang back.

“Goddammit, Byers. You wantin’ to get your blasted head blowed off?”

“There’s some folks here that want to talk to ya.”

“Goddamn! I ain’t carin’ if Jesus Christ is wantin’ to talk to me. Get the hell out and leave me be.”

“Watch yoreself,” Byers warned. “There’s a lady here.”

“Lady? Hell! Now ain’t that somethin’?”

“Are ya sober enough to talk, Smith?” Byers asked.

“Sober enough to know I ain’t needing a whore.” Green eyes shot with red glared at Willa. “You’re outta luck, hon.
I couldn’t do ya any good if I wanted to. Come back tonight. I might be able to get it up. Goddamn! My heads bustin’ wide open—”

Willa was shocked speechless but only for a moment. She took a deep breath and when she released it, anger boiled up.

“You . . . crude, pitiful excuse for a human being! It would serve you right if the top of your filthy head blew off!”

“Get out.”

“Come on, ma’am. He ain’t fit company for a warthog much less a lady.”

Byers nudged Willa gently toward the aisle, but she resisted and stood looking down at Smith, her face rigid with impatience and anger.

“Get the hell out!” Smith yelled again and moaned at the sound of his own voice.

“Whiskey-soaked sot! Just look at you—wallowing in filth like a hog!” Willa focused on what irritated her the most.

“Get her outta here, Byers, unless she wants to stay and watch me take a piss.”

“Smith! For God’s sake. What’s got into you?”

“I don’t need a nasty-nice little heifer tellin’ me what I am!” Smith yelled and held his hand to his head. “Get the hell away from me.”

“Gladly! You stink like a . . . like a privy!” Willa jerked her chin up and stalked out of the stall, muttering something under her breath that sounded like a string of cuss words.

She rounded the corner and ran into a water barrel. A bucket floated on the top. Too angry to think about what she was doing, she grabbed the bucket, filled it with water, whirled, and flung it in the face of the man still sitting on the straw.

“That’s water in case you don’t know what it is!”

He jumped to his feet. “Goddamn whore! Damn you to hell—”

Willa glared at him with deep-rooted dislike showing on her face. She had never done such an outrageous thing in her life. She took a deep breath to steady herself and spoke in a low, controlled voice as she drew back the empty bucket.

“Call me that name again and I’ll . . . smash your face!”

“Jesus! Get her outta here before I hurt her.”

Charlie flung himself in front of Willa. “Touch her and I’ll shoot yore blamed head off.”

“Good lord! She’s got a cub!”

“Come on, ma’am. He’s in no mood to talk now.”

“—Or ever . . . to her!” Smith yelled, wiping water from his face.

With her back ramrod straight, indignation in every line of her face, Willa led the way back down the aisle to the door, where the old man leaned on the pitchfork.

“Reckon he won’t be in no shape a’tall till ’bout noon,” Rusty said.

“If then,” Byers growled as he passed.

The freighters were ready to pull out. One was already on the wagon seat. The other stood beside the wheel.

“Hey, Byers. Speak to ya a minute.”

“Yo. Beg pardon, ma’am.” Byers excused himself and headed for the wagon. The man waiting for him was a head taller and built like an ox: broad and strong. His feet were planted firmly on the ground. His face was rugged but pleasant.

“Wanted to tell ya to keep a eye out. Heard Coyle and Fuller talkin’ ’bout Frank’s women folk. Fuller likes ’em young. Younger the better. He got a peek at the girl and liked what he saw.” Orvis Rucker ran blunt fingers through tight black curls that clung to his head like a cap. “Hell, if I didn’t have to get this load to Sheridan, I’d stick around.”

“Low-down bastard! I’m obliged to ya, Rucker. I’ll get
out my old buffalo gun and keep it handy. Smith Bowman’s in the barn, but he’s in bad shape.”

“Sober him up ’n’ he’s worth any three men ya can find. Drunk, he ain’t worth shit. Sorry I can’t stay and lend a hand.”

“So long, Rucker. See ya next week.”

As soon as the man climbed the wheel and grabbed the reins, the whip sang out over the backs of the mules. The big wagon rolled. Both men nodded to Willa as they passed. She smiled and waved.

“What do we do now, Willa?” Charlie asked.

“Wait until someone else stops by, I guess.”

“Son, I’m thinkin’ it’d be a good idey if ya moved yore wagon on down here and parked it there where the freight wagon was. Put yore mules in the corral. I’d feel better if I could keep a eye on ya till ya move on.”

“That’s mighty thoughtful, Mister—”

The sound of a barking dog cut off Charlie’s words. He looked quickly at Willa. Without the slightest hesitation she began to run. She knew when Buddy’s bark was urgent. Another minute or two and he would go after whatever it was that was upsetting him.

She rounded the building with Charlie sprinting ahead of her, Mr. Byers behind. A man with a wide brimmed, high-crowned hat stood beside the Frank wagon. Buddy was hunkered down ready to spring if he took a step.

“Get away from that wagon,” Byers shouted.

Willa watched in horror as the man pulled a gun from his holster.

“Shoot that dog and ya’ll get it in the back,” Charlie yelled. He stopped, cocked the rifle and aimed.

“Back off! Back off, or by God, I’ll shoot ya myself.” Byers was huffing from the short, fast run.

The man lifted his hands. “I ain’t turnin’ my back on this dog.”

Willa went ahead and called to Buddy. The man shoved his gun back into the holster and turned.

“What the hell is all the ruckus, Byers? I was just paying a call on a grieving family.”

“Like hell ya was. Get the hell away from here, Fuller.”

“Listen good, Byers. You’re not telling me what to do or who to call on.”

“While yore at my station, ya do as I say. It’s time for ya to ride on.” Mr. Byers stood on spread legs and looked the man in the eye.

“If I don’t?”

“Word’ll be passed ’n’ ya’ll not find bed or board in a station in the territory.”

Willa looked at the man and shivered. He was a short weak-jawed man with bulging eyes—a man who needed to prove he stood tall. She’d seen such a man as this lord it over Papa Igor a hundred times. The frog-like eyes turned on her.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Seemed proper to me to call and pay my respects.”

“You could have done that at the burial service,” Willa said frostily.

“That dog will get a bullet between his eyes if he comes at me again.”

“Then you’ll get one between yours,” Charlie said.

“You’re talking pretty big, boy. You ain’t dry behind the ears yet.”

“I don’t have to be to pull a trigger.”

Willa couldn’t have been prouder of Charlie if he had been her own son.

“What’s goin’ on?” Jo Bell climbed out of the wagon and stood with her hands clasped in front of her. “Answer me, now, Charlie Frank. What’s that man talkin’ about?”

“Nothin’.” Charlie moved over beside his sister. “He’s goin’.”

“Watch the end of that rifle, boy. Somebody might draw on you thinking you’re about to shoot.” Fuller pulled a cigar from his pocket, struck a match on the iron rim of the wagon wheel, and lit it. He stared down at Jo Bell. “Howdy, miss.” He spoke in a soft, intimate voice.

“Get in the wagon, Jo Bell.” Charlie gave his sister a gentle push.

“Don’t push me!”

“Name’s Fuller, Miss Frank. George Fuller. I’m sure sorry about your pa.”

Jo Bell looked at Fuller with large, violet eyes, the surly expression gone from her heart-shaped face. Inky black curls tumbled about her shoulders. She was lovely. Willa realized suddenly that Jo Bell Frank was one of the most beautiful girls she had ever seen. Fuller was looking at her as if he was a cat and she a dish of cream.

“No, you ain’t. You ain’t sorry a’tall.” Jo Bell said in a voice Willa had seldom heard her use. The whine was gone. “You come to get a look at me. Well, look yore fill.”

“You’re sure enough somethin’ to look at.”

“I know that too. I’ll tell ya straight out. I ain’t havin’ no talk with a buggy-eyed old man. So get yoreself away from here.”

The silence that followed was filled with tension. Then Fuller laughed.

“You need some of the sass taken out of you, honey, and I know just how to do it.”

“I ain’t yore . . . h-honey—” The word was a seductive whisper.

Fuller stared. Jo Bell tilted her head and stared back with her mouth tilted at the corners. She lowered her lids, then lifted them to give him a wide-eyed innocent look. Willa
could have slapped her. She was practicing flirtation on this horrible man.

“You will be,” Fuller said breathlessly and walked away.

Mr. Byers watched him leave. “That man’s trouble. Keep a eye out. Hitch up, Charlie. Move to where I told ya. Ladies, it’d be best if ya stayed outta sight till them fellers ride out. I’ll see if I can hurry them along.”

“Move?” Jo Bell said. “I ain’t goin’ to leave . . . Papa—”

“We’re moving down closer to the station.” Willa began to clear the campsite.

“Ain’t you leavin’ on the stage?”

“Charlie asked me to stay with you until you get to your uncle’s.”

“Why? You don’t like me.”

“You’ve not given me much of a reason to like you, Jo Bell.”

“I don’t care. ’Cause I don’t like you anyhow. I w-want Papa—”

“I know you do,” Willa said gently. “I miss my Papa too.”