Dorothy Garlock (5 page)

“Why not? Brutus lived and Caesar didn’t. My Brutus is a survivor. I got him from a trapper who mated a timber wolf and a mastiff bitch. His wolf blood is predominant. He can almost follow the scent of a bird in flight. He’s loyal and smart and doesn’t seem to require the friendship of any living creature except me and the horses. What more can I ask?”

Rosalee’s thoughts were in total confusion. Logan Horn was an educated man. There was more to him, much more, than any man she had ever met. For the space of a dozen heartbeats she sat there regarding him in thoughtful silence.

“You’re a very strange man, Mr. Horn,” she whispered wonderingly. The pulse at the base of her throat beat frantically. She had the feeling that this was a very important moment in her life.

“You wouldn’t think so if I was all white,” he said quietly. “I think of myself as a man, with needs just like any other man.”

“I would still think you’re different,” she insisted.

“I could say the same for you. I’ve not met many women in the West that knew Brutus killed Caesar. And none in an isolated place such as this.”

“My mother was a schoolteacher before she married my papa. How long have you been away from your mother’s people, Mr. Horn?” She held her breath during the silence that followed. Had she been too bold? Would he tell her to mind her own business?

“A long time. I was six years old when my uncle came back to the village to get his Indian wife and daughter. He persuaded my mother and my grandfather to let me go with them. I would be educated and sent back to help my people.”

“And were you?”

“I was educated to the point that I almost forgot who I was. Then the war came along. I served for four years. During that time, facing death everyday, I found myself.”

She caught the faint sound of an indrawn breath. “You haven’t talked about yourself for a long time, have you?” she asked in a thoughtful murmur. “Did you miss your mother?”

“At first I had Dancing Flower, my uncle’s wife. He named her Louise and insisted that I call her that, but I thought of her as Dancing Flower. She died, then her daughter died, and there was only me and my uncle.”

“How old were you then?”

“I was eight.”

“Poor little boy. Did you cry?”

“The white part of me cried, the Indian part didn’t.”

In spite of knowing the danger of probing farther, Rosalee was compelled to say: “Your uncle must have loved you.”

“I guess he did in his own way. I went to good schools . . . for a while. Then I was taken out and tutored privately. You see, the people who send their children to exclusive academies don’t want them sitting in the classroom with an Indian. At first I thought there was something wrong with
me.
Later I asked my uncle about it.”

“Did he tell you?”

“No. It was then I realized that he never really looked at me.” A deep undertone in his voice revealed the pain from long ago. “My uncle had a deep sense of responsibility for me, but that was all. He and my father came West with John Fremont in ’42 and were made welcome in my mother’s village. They spent the winter and each took an Indian wife. When it was time to move on my father divorced my mother, but my uncle promised to return and he did. He tried to make up for my father’s callous attitude toward my mother and me by seeing to my education and making me his heir when he died.”

“Did you ever see your father again?”

“No. He and my uncle had a falling out. Both were wealthy Englishmen. My father stayed in the West. My uncle lived out his life in Saint Louis.”

“Is Horn your father’s name?”

“It’s my name. I was born in a Cheyenne village and named Deer Horn by my grandfather. My uncle named me Logan after we went to Saint Louis. He didn’t want to enroll me in school with a name like Deer Horn.”

Rosalee became self-conscious about the questions she was asking. Looking into his eyes, she voiced the thought that came to her. “I’ve been rude. I’m sorry I’ve asked so many questions.”

“I wouldn’t have answered them if I hadn’t wanted to,” he said in a direct way. “You’re an easy person to talk to Miss Spurlock.”

Rosalee was mildly surprised by his statement. Another question bubbled on her lips, but she held it back. For a long minute they looked at each other, half smiling.

“My name is Rosalee.”

“It’s a musical name.”

There was a long silence during which he never ceased to watch her. Finally, she voiced the question she had been holding back.

“Was your mother heartbroken when your father left her?”

“Yes. She had great pride and was ashamed. My mother was part Spanish. Running Wind, her father, took a Spanish captive for a wife. Her name was Carlotta de Vega, but he called her White Cloud. She came to love him very much and bore him two sons and a daughter. When she died my grandfather transferred all his love to my mother. He said she was as beautiful as my grandmother and had all her endearing qualities.”

“Then you have as much Spanish blood as Indian.”

“I’m not ashamed of my Indian blood,” he said curtly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“That it made me seem a little less Indian in your eyes?”

“No! I meant that it explained . . . the way you look.” She sat in an agony of embarrassment and suspense, expecting him to mount up and ride out.

In the tense silence, Logan’s voice sounded unnaturally loud. “How come the land to the west isn’t filed on?”

Relieved, Rosalee thought a moment before she answered. “The Clayhill ranch is to the north. Mr. Clayhill has used that range for a long time. There’s been people on it, but they never stay.”

“How come you’re here? Hasn’t he tried to run you off?”

“We only have a thousand acres. He has sixty thousand. I don’t know why he leaves us alone when he has run others off the land. His drovers harass the small landholders.” Rosalee tried to keep the antagonism she felt for all things Clayhill out of her voice.

“Have you met him?”

“When we first came here he came by and talked to my pa. He had about twenty riders with him. He’s not been back since. His drovers come by now and then and Ben runs into a Clayhill hand every once in awhile. I think they’ve had orders to leave us alone. The Haywards, the Smithfields, and the Cranstons came about a year after we did. They’re from Kentucky and are homesteading in the hills to the east. The Parnells have a place out there somewhere. I met Mrs. Parnell in town once. And you always have to have a couple of rotten apples in the barrel. The Cranes and the Barkers are shiftless and haven’t even tried to clear their land.”

“Will your pa object if I leave the mare and the foal here for a few days?”

“He might, but he’ll get over it. Ben and I will look out for them.”

“Aren’t you going to ask where I’m going?”

She looked at him quickly and saw that he was smiling. “I suspect,” she mused, returning his smile, “that you’re referring to all the questions I’ve asked. You’ve asked a few yourself.” When he continued to smile, she said, “I’ll not disappoint you. Where are you going?”

His laugh was deep and soft and he gazed at her so long a swift new wave of color filled her cheeks. She wondered if he could see it in the moonlight and if he could hear her heart pounding. She wanted to press her hand to it to stop its mad gallop.

“I’m going to town and buy that land.”

Rosalee took a slow breath while the import of his words sank in. Finally she said, “You’re going to buy
that
land?”

“That’s what I said. I knew when I rode over that land today and found a place to build my mother’s scaffold that here’s where I’d stop and here’s where I’ll stay. Will you mind having a breed for a neighbor?”

“That’s not even worth an answer and you know it!” she said with cold formality. “Besides, it isn’t us you have to watch out for. It’s Mr. Clayhill. He won’t like it at all.”

“There’s nothing he can do about it if I buy the land.”

“There’s plenty he can do about it. He’s got more than twenty men working for him and most of them will do whatever he tells them to do regardless of what it is.”

“Where’re your boundaries?”

“Our land borders the Clayhill ranch on the west. It runs east to the canyon and I don’t know how far south.”

“No matter. I can tell by looking at the map at the Federal Land Office.”

“You’re really going to do it?”

“If the land hasn’t already been bought.”

“But . . . you don’t know Mr. Clayhill. He’s always used that range and he’s got some tough, mean men. They’ll not let you stay.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Of course it does. I don’t want you . . . killed!”

“He’d go that far, huh?”

“He’s used that range for twenty years. He’ll not want to give it up. Logan . . . ah, Mr. Horn, you’ll have more trouble than one man can handle.” Rosalee got to her feet. He picked up the plate and the spoon and stood towering over her.

“Maybe,” he said solemnly. “But it’s something I’ve got to do.” He put the plate in her hands. “Thank you for the supper and for the information. I’ll put the mare and the foal in the corral. Will it be all right if I leave my pack in the cow shed?”

“Of course.” She turned and looked up at him. She was a tall girl, but he towered above her. “Mr. Horn . . . as long as you’re going to town, will you buy a bag of peppermint sticks for my sister? I’ll give you the money before you leave in the morning.”

“It would be my pleasure to buy the treat.” He stood looking at her. He wanted to tell her that he had thought about her every minute during the ride back from the high country, that she was nothing like any woman he had ever known; she was warm and gentle and lovely. He couldn’t say any of those things to her yet. He would have to move cautiously. “Good night, ma’am. Thanks again for the supper.”

Logan woke before dawn, saddled up, tied up his bedroll, and rode out. Brutus sprang past to take his customary position ont in front of the horse. The stallion was impatient and Logan let him run until his sides heaved, something he wasn’t able to do when the mare and the foal were with them.

He rode northeast, following the trace, anxious to reach the town twenty miles away. He had a lot to think about. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed congenial company. He tried to put the woman out of his mind and fasten his thoughts on what lay ahead, but they repeatedly darted out of control and returned to her. He muttered an oath in self-contempt. “You’ve been too long without a woman, you stupid sonofabitch. Just because she had more human qualities than you’ve seen in a
Wasicun
for a long while doesn’t mean she’d cotton to you!”

He reached Junction City a couple of hours after sunup. He pulled his mount to a halt on the edge of town, checked the Colt strapped to his waist, then walked the handsome, spotted stallion down the main street. He steeled himself to accept the jibes and the stony-eyed hostility he would encounter as he moved down the street amid horses and wagons. A cur came out to challenge Brutus, who trotted close beside the stud. Brutus’s bared fangs and the low growl were enough to send the cur back between the buildings. Logan had been here months back and remembered the dusty street, the unpainted wooden buildings, and the loafers who sat in front of the saloon.

He rode up to the rail in front of the town’s only eatery, dismounted, and tied the reins. Brutus stood close beside him on stiff legs. The hair stood straight on the back of his neck. The dog didn’t like being in town.

“Stay with the man, Brutus.” The dog looked up at him, then obediently moved over beside the horse’s front feet and hunkered down.

Logan mounted the steps and crossed the board porch. He had just reached the door when it swung open and three tall, dusty, young drovers came out. They were laughing and joshing each other, but the minute they saw Logan they turned their attention to him.

“Well, now. What’ve we got here? Do you fellers see what I see?”

It was the old familiar scene, one that never changed; but today marked a new phase in Logan’s life, and he felt not the slightest tinge of humiliation. Tempering the anger that swept over him was a feeling that was almost pity for the poor bastards who, in their misguided judgment, thought it elevated them a little higher to step on his pride.

“I think what we’ve got here is a red ass. Howdy, red ass! Don’t you know you can’t eat in here with white folks? We ain’t got no stomach for stink.” He put his hand to his mouth, patted his lips, and let go with a war chant. “Hey . . . a . . . a . . . heya!”

Logan’s face never changed expression as he walked steadily toward the door. When he came alongside them, his hand flashed out and fastened on the cowboy’s shirt, then he hauled him off his feet and slammed him up against the wall.

“You need to learn some manners. You put that filthy name to me again and you’ll wish to God you’d never set eyes on me. I’ll tear the tongue right out of your stupid head!” The rage that burned in him boiled out. He slammed the young cowboy against the wall several more times before he released him to sag to the porch. “Now, get out of my way, buzzard bait! Go crawl back into the hole you came out of!”

He glared at the two other men and then deliberately put the point of his shoulder against one of them and spun him halfway around as he strode into the eatery.

Logan passed between the tables only half filled with diners and took his seat at the far end facing the door. The people in the room couldn’t help hearing the commotion on the porch and they stared at him in hostile silence. Logan placed his hat on the chair beside him and ran his hands over his face and hair, then let them rest in his lap while he breathed deeply to calm himself. There were times when he was shaken by his rage. He seldom allowed his control to slip, but when it did, it frightened him. He knew that if either or both of the other men had made a move, he would have killed them. The realization that he was capable of a spur of the moment killing, after being so sickened by it during the war, filled him with dismay. He tried not to think about what had happened on the porch and concentrate on getting his stomach settled to receive the food—if he was served any.