Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (10 page)

“I was riding a big, spotted gray, Sam. Have you seen anything of him?”

“I know the horse. There’s not another like him in the territory. No, I’ve not seen him. Whoever jumped ya’d not take him to town. Ya can get hung for horse stealin’ as quick as rapin’ a woman.”

“About Mara Shannon,” Pack said in a low voice, his dark eyes holding Sam’s, “she’s not for the likes of anyone around here.”

“Are ya warnin’ me off, Pack?”

“You can call it that.”

“If I set my mind on havin’ her, yore warnin’ wouldn’t make a whit of difference. I’d fight ya for her with bullets, not fists.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not the one ya’ve got ta worry ’bout. Ya’d better look a bit closer ta home.”

“Cullen? I’ll kill that bastard someday. I know you’re decent with women, Sam, and you’ll not force yourself on her.” His low voice had a warning in it.

“Ya don’t want me courtin’ her either, is that it?”

“That’s it. What do you have to offer a woman like her? You’re not a settlin’ man.”

“Yo’re not the settlin’ down kind either, Pack.”

There was cold-eyed hostility in the look Pack gave Sam Sparks. “I know I’m not good enough for her, and I want you to know that you’re not good enough either.”

“I plan to be movin’ on soon.”

“What about the others? Who’s down there?”

“Sporty Howard for one.”

“Godamighty!”

“Ya’d best be gettin’ her away from here, unless ya plan to stay around ’n ride shotgun.”

“Godamighty!” Pack said again. “I’d be obliged if you stayed on till I’m on my feet.”

“I plan to.” Sam stood and looked down. “Galls ya to ask a favor, don’t it? Can’t say I’d not feel the same. Watch yoreself, Pack. Next time that bunch from Laramie will kill ya.”

FIVE

Sam left the McCall ranch, heading in a westerly direction toward the mountains. He rode cautiously along the two-wheel track, the mid-morning sun hot on his back. It was lonely, rugged country. These were the foothills of the Laramie Mountain Range, and there were more trees on the ridges, cutting down the visibility. In the valley the grass was truly green, but higher up where it was drier, the vegetation was stiff, harsh, more gray than green. He came to Lodgepole Creek and turned, following an animal path alongside it to find a place to cross.

Where the creek narrowed, he reined in, studied the land and listened. Far off to the south he heard the short blast of a train whistle, and then another and another. The whistling went on and on. Sam decided the engineer was trying to clear the track of buffalo. The crack of a rifle reached him, then another. Soon the sound of continuous shooting echoed from hill to hill.

“Goddamn stupid bastards!” Sam had seen the frenzy of killing displayed by Easterners when they saw their first herd of the slow-plodding animals. The waste made his stomach turn. All along the tracks were piles of bones, mangy hides and rotting carcasses. What the Easterners didn’t kill for sport, the buffalo hunters killed for hides. The buffalo herds were small now. If the slaughter continued, in a few years there would be no buffalo at all. Who could blame the Indian for his hatred of the white man?

Sam touched his heels to the gelding, urging him down the embankment and into the fast-moving water of the creek. The horse cautiously tested the rocky bottom to find footing, then confidently moved on across to climb the bank on the opposite side.

Thoughts of Pack Gallagher sifted into Sam’s mind. He had met Pack in ’68, a couple of months after Laramie sprang up. Before the iron rails had reached the site, only a few tents had been pitched to house the tie cutters and grading crews working west of Cheyenne. Almost overnight a town of several hundred shacks and cabins of logs, sod, canvas and wagon boxes had appeared. Now, two years later, Laramie was a sprawling, brawling town of rutted, dusty streets, gamblers, dance-hall women, saloon keepers, and hangers-on.

Sam had known the big Irishman by reputation and, guided by intuition, liked him. He was honest, intelligent, and intensely loyal to his friends. The previous month Sam had seen the fight between Pack and the Pittsburgh fighter whom he had challenged. The sign nailed to the wall beside the saloon door by the cigar-smoking promoter had read: A HUNDRED DOLLARS TO ANY MAN WHO CAN STAY IN THE RING FOR THREE ROUNDS WITH BLACK BOB MASON. It created a flurry of excitement, and every betting man within a hundred miles had converged on the booming town.

The fight had been the main topic of conversation in every saloon in Laramie for days. The populace would bet on anything; horserace, footrace, shooting, knife throwing—even how long a chicken could survive in the rutted road in front of the saloon before it was carried off by one of the hungry dogs that roamed the town. A prizefight in a ring was a major event.

Pack’s friends had urged him to fight.

“Ye can pick up a quick hundred, Pack. Ye ain’t been beat yet.”

“Yo’re the only man we got to go agin that blowhard.”

“I seen ’em fight in Cheyenne. He ain’t no bruiser, like you, Pack.”

“We be needin’ a grub stake, Pack. We’ll be bettin’ on ya to brin’ home the bacon.”

Big money was bet on the Pittsburgh brawler. Amid the cheers of his supporters, Pack had knocked the man out in the third round. His friends had collected their money and headed for the gold fields. Later, Sam had discovered, gamblers from the Kosy Kitty Saloon had ordered Pack to lose the fight or suffer the consequences. The reason they had not killed Pack, Sam thought now, was so he could fight another day and they could recoup their losses.

Sam moved on down the trail. He had learned to sort out sounds. The shooting had stopped. Far off he heard the screech of a rabbit that had fallen prey to a soaring hawk. The horse’s long tail flicking at the pesky flies made a swishing sound; the roan’s hooves crunched the dry grass. As Sam shifted his weight, the saddle leather creaked.

Suddenly above these sounds he heard a woman singing. He pulled up on the reins, stopping the roan. He didn’t want to make the same mistake the outlaw back at McCall’s had made and have his horse get a load of rock salt in the rump.

The woman’s voice was incredibly sweet and clear.

“Beautiful dreamer, waken to me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

lulled by the moonlight have all passed away.”

Sam sat as still as a stone long after the woman stopped singing. The beautiful tones echoed in his head. He shook his head to rid it of thoughts of another girl who had loved that song—his sister. Painful memories that he had shoved to the back of his mind came forward to torment him anew.

He had survived the war, but his family had not survived an attack by deserters who killed them for food and horses, then burned the house down so there was nothing left of his family to bury. Sam had gone back to his home on the Red River to find everything gone. Even the river had changed its course and flowed over the site of the homestead. Neighbors had told him of the vicious attack. His family was gone. Everything was gone except his childhood memories.

Just as Sam was about to ride on, the woman began to sing again. He waited and listened.

   “Will you come with me, my Phyllis dear, to

yon blue mountain free?

   Where blossoms smell the sweetest, come rove

along with me.

   It’s every Sunday morning when I am by your side,

   We’ll jump into the wagon and all take a ride.”

The song was one sung by northern soldiers during the war. It gave Sam new food for thought. Had Charlie Rivers fought for the Blue or the Gray? Sam rode down the worn trail and through a stand of aspen, expecting any moment to be challenged by the homesteader. The scent he smelled was familiar although he hadn’t smelled it for a long while. Soap was being made in a kettle over an open fire.

Sam moved out of the trees. He saw the homestead set in the clearing. A woman in a brown dress and a white apron was stirring the soap in an iron kettle with a large wooden paddle. He rode toward her cautiously. His eyes took in everything from the neat log house to the outbuildings and the long cords of evenly cut firewood stacked between the trees beside the house. He could tell a lot about a man by the way he kept up his place. Charlie Rivers planned well. He was methodical, hard-working and, from the looks of this place, there to stay.

The woman had heard the sound of his horse’s hooves. She stopped stirring the soap and stood still, gripping the large paddle with both hands. She was as alert as a deer sensing danger. Sam pulled the horse to a halt a dozen yards from where she stood.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he called. “I’m Sam Sparks and I’m bringin’ a word from Pack Gallagher.”

Long minutes passed. The woman stood so silent and so still, Sam wondered if she could speak.

“This’s the Rivers’ place, ain’t it?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“A word with Charlie Rivers. Is he here?”

“Oh, yes. He’s in the house.” She spoke so quickly that Sam knew she was alone. The quiver in her voice betrayed her fear.

“Will you ask him to come out?”

“Stay where you are. He’ll be out in a minute.” She pulled the paddle partially out of the kettle, holding it as if ready to swing.

“You needn’t be afraid of me, ma’am. I’ll keep my distance till your brother comes . . . out.”

She didn’t answer or move. Sam had a chance to study her. Somehow he had thought she would be a very young girl. She had the mature body of a woman past twenty. Her skin was golden from being in the sun, her hair light brown, and she wore it braided, Indian fashion. The eyes in her still face were enormous. He was surprised. Didn’t Cullen say she was blind? He was not close enough to see the color of her eyes, but they were light, very light. She had turned her head slightly and was listening for him to make the slightest move.

A wave of anger swept over him when he recalled Cullen saying that she wouldn’t know
who
it was under her skirts. She needed protection from the low-life that hung around McCalls even more than Mara McCall needed it. Sam searched his brain for something to say that would put the woman at ease, but nothing came to mind.

His eyes roved the homestead. It was a homey looking place with the mountains for a background. A rope swing with a plank seat hung from the branch of a tree. The garden had neat weedless rows, and beside it a line was stretched for drying the wash. Hollyhocks grew around the privy that sat back from the house. Sam noted the line fastened from the privy to the house and realized it was for Miss Rivers’ convenience. It was clear to Sam that Charlie Rivers thought a lot of his sister.

Sam’s horse moved restlessly and nickered, peaking his ears and looking toward the stockade corral. A big gray horse trotted up to the fence and answered the roan’s greeting with a trumpet of his own.

“Pack’ll be glad to know ya found his horse, Miss Rivers. He was worried about him.”

“Charlie found him. There was blood on the saddle. Is Pack all right?”

“He’ll be all right in a day or two. He was worked over pretty good.”

“Charlie thinks someone put Pack in a wagon. He found markings on the road. The tracks headed north toward the McCalls.”

“Mara McCall found him on the road to Sheffield Station.”

“He was going there to meet her. How is Pack’s mother taking it?”

“ ’Twas hard on her, seein’ him so beat up.”

“Poor Brita. Have you seen Miss McCall?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sam saw a flicker of movement inside the house. Charlie Rivers must have come in through the back. Sam crossed his arms and leaned them on the saddlehorn, not wanting the short-tempered man to think he was reaching for a gun. Suddenly the man charged out the door with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

“Go to the left, Emily,” he shouted. The woman dropped the paddle back into the kettle, turned to the left and disappeared behind the house. “State your business.”

Sam’s first thought was to wonder why someone hadn’t told him Charlie Rivers was a one-legged man. The knee of his left leg rested in the cradle of a peg held by straps that wrapped about his thigh, the stump sticking out behind.

“I’ve a message from Pack Gallagher.”

“What is it?”

“Pack needs clothes, boots . . . and his horse.”

“What shape is he in?”

“Bad, at first. They dragged him ’n shot him twice. He’s at McCall’s.”

“Hell of a place for him to be flat on his back.”

“He’s in the big house. His ma ’n Mara McCall are takin’ care of him ’n doin’ a fair job of it. Are you goin’ to keep me sittin’ out here all day?”

“You’re not here by my invitation.”

“Not by my own choice either. Pack said ya was a friend a his, ’n asked me to come.”

Charlie Rivers took his time looking Sam over. Sam looked back at him steadily. Finally Charlie lowered the gun.

“Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Sam said dryly when he moved closer. “I’m about to wear out my throat yellin’.”

Sam stepped down from the saddle and looped the reins over a rail. Charlie Rivers stepped down off the porch. He was a squarely built man, not as big as either Sam or Pack, but well-muscled and agile. He spun around easily on the peg leg.

“Sit,” he said, indicating the edge of the porch.

“Hot for June,” Sam commented as he sat down. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

“Guess it is.” Rivers sat also, still holding the shotgun. The man seemed to wait deliberately for Sam to speak. Sam thought he might as well oblige him.

“I saw the fight in Laramie. Mason was no match for Pack a’tall. I figure Pack was told to lose the fight. When he didn’t, he was jumped by the crowd that lost.”

“Pack wouldn’t throw a prizefight. He was fighting to get his friends a grub stake. Black Bob Mason was paid the same, win or lose. The gamblers were the ones set to make the money, not Mason.” Charlie snorted with disgust.

“Have ya known Pack long?” Sam took a sack of tobacco and papers from his pocket and offered them to Charlie. The man shook his head and Sam began to build a cigarette.