Sixteen Brides (30 page)

“Keep talking,” Lucas said.

Some of the cowboys at the next corral over had turned their way to watch what was happening. What
was
happening? “Yes. Well, as I was saying, I personally think you should have been coyote food long ago after the fit you threw that nearly killed my friend. There’s no accounting for your beha—”

Hannibal tossed his head and pawed the ground. Next he walked to the fence, bobbed his head up and down and lifted his upper lip to show his teeth.

“If you are honestly thinking of taking a bite out of me, I do not approve. I don’t even know why we’re standing here, but—” Clyde Day came around the other side of the corral. Hannibal snorted, lurched away from the fence, and as he headed away, kicked the air with both hind feet. But then he stopped when he got across the corral and turned back around, again clearly watching Ruth.

“Well, I’ll be—” Lucas kept his hand at her waist even as he chuckled.

“What you’ll
be,
Mr. Gray, is sorry if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” Ruth stepped away from him. “I don’t appreciate being used as bait.”

“You aren’t bait, woman. You’re . . . reassurance. Hannibal likes you. Not just you, probably. Probably all women. I’ve heard of things like this before—a horse that has a distinct preference for a certain kind of companion. Stable mates range from goats to—I heard about a racehorse that took a liking to a rabbit once. The owner actually built a warren in the horse’s stall.”

“I will admit that it does seem he calms down when he sees me, but—it has to be a coincidence. Doesn’t it?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” He reached in his pocket and handed her a lump of sugar.

“Oh no. I’m not putting my hand anywhere near that creature.”

“Why not? From the other side of a corral fence, no horse can do much damage compared to . . . oh, say . . . an Apache war party chasing someone. Or a rattlesnake striking at a general.”

Ruth glowered toward the corral where Jackson was, at that moment, branding a bawling calf. She would speak to him later about telling stories behind her back.

She lifted her chin. “Fine.” She spoke to the horse again. “It seems Mr. Gray believes you have taken a liking to me. That’s impossible, of course, but I’ve this lump of sugar. And if you want it—” Ruth held out her hand. Hannibal came to the center of the corral. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said. The horse tossed his head. “Oh no. I’m not coming in there. You have to come to me.” The horse did it. He walked to the edge of the corral and thrust his head over the top rail. He snorted. And pawed. “If you’re planning murder,” Ruth said, “you need to know that my friend here has a gun. I’m not certain he’ll use it if it comes to a choice between you and me, but—”

“Hey.” Lucas’s voice sounded in her ear. “That’s not funny.”

“Well, the horse did cost you a lot of money.”

“Just offer him the sugar, Ruth. See what happens.”

What happened was . . . not much. Ruth opened her hand and Hannibal lipped the sugar cube off her palm, sucking on it not unlike a child savoring his favorite candy. “So,” Ruth said, “this ridiculous man seems to think you like me. What do you say?”

Hannibal tossed his head, although it appeared to Ruth to be more of a nod.

She stepped forward. The soft muzzle touched her palm. She felt warm breath, and then slowly she put her hand alongside the jaw and stroked, very carefully. “Well,” she said, “I suppose I should apologize for that comment about the coyotes.”

“You should apologize for the comment about me choosing him over you, too,” Lucas groused.

“A lady never apologizes for telling what she believes to be the truth, Lucas.”

“You,” he said, and tugged on a curl at the nape of her neck, “are treading very close to hurting my feelings.”

Ruth snorted. “I believe you’re man enough to handle it, Mr. Gray. And no, I will not move to the ranch to improve Hannibal’s mood.” She meant it as a joke, but then she realized what she’d said and could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Muttering something about going to find Ella and Sally so they could watch Jackson in the other corral, she hurried away.

Caroline woke with a start. What a strange dream. Linney and she were picking wildflowers together in a field more like the meadow at Mulberry Plantation than anything here in the west. Just as Caroline added a brilliant orange poppy to her bouquet, Linney called out to her pa. Caroline looked up, and there was Matthew, just visible on the horizon, loping toward them astride Patch. He rode straight to where Linney and Caroline waited, then dismounted and, putting one arm around Linney, reached out to Caroline and— Patch snorted. Caroline jerked awake. A snort. In her dream . . . or not?

She lay in the dark, listening, then lifted her head to peer into the center room, lighted by the lamp they always left burning on the window ledge. Because Hettie wasn’t feeling well, she’d stayed downstairs this evening, sleeping in Ruth’s bed while Zita kept watch from Ella’s. But there was no sign of movement coming from that bedroom.

As a shadow played across the whitewashed wall above Zita’s cot, Caroline caught her breath.
There it was again. A muffled . . . something.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Caroline suddenly felt like she was strangling.
Peppermint. Dear Lord . . . no.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she rolled to the edge of her cot and reached for the Winchester lying on the hard-packed earthen floor next to her bed. She’d just sat up with the rifle in hand when a man appeared in the doorway. “If I were you,” she said, “I’d rethink my plan.”

“Now, why would I want to do that, sweetheart?”

Dear Lord in heaven, help me.
Her voice wavered as she said, “Because if you take one more step I’m going to pull this trigger.”

The figure looming in the doorway hesitated, and so did Caroline. It was only a second, but their plan worked. The stranger looming in the doorway had distracted Caroline just long enough for Lowell Day to launch himself through her bedroom window.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

Watch ye, stand fast in the faith,
quit you like men, be strong.

1 CORINTHIANS 16:13

T
he moon was high and the evening breeze warm with the scent of wildflowers when Calico finally clip-clopped over the rise and headed down the slope for home. Sally was in midsentence lamenting that she hadn’t had nearly enough time to “charm the socks off that foreman of Mr. Gray’s,” when Ella put her hand on Ruth’s shoulder.

“Pull up,” she said. “Something’s wrong down there.” Ruth complied and the buggy came to a standstill. Calico tossed her head and stomped a protest. “The lamps,” Ella said, nodding toward the house.

“What about the lamps?” Sally asked. “We always leave a lamp burning.”

“
A
lamp,” Ella said. “Not all of them.” Calico whickered. “Ruth. Can you get down and keep her quiet? I don’t want them to know we’re nearly home.”

“ ‘Them’? Who . . . ‘them’?” Ruth gestured toward the house. “They probably felt a little lonely and wanted some extra light. Remember how we all felt those first nights in the Immigrant House when the coyotes were howling?”

“But we’re used to coyotes now.”

Just then, the front door opened. More light spilled out of the house, but no one appeared in the doorway.

“I don’t like it,” Ella said.

“It does look a little strange,” Sally agreed.

Ella cleared her throat. “Caroline didn’t want me to say anything, but . . .”

“She told you about Lowell Day,” Sally said.

“Yes. And that Mr. Gray had suggested she be a little more vigilant for a while because Day has disappeared.”

“What on earth are you two talking about?” Ruth asked.

Sally filled her in, finishing with, “But Lowell Day’s long gone from Dawson County. Caroline and me made it clear we’d tell Mr. Gray if he didn’t
stay
gone.”

“But Lucas has been . . . incapacitated,” Ruth said. “What if Day heard about it somehow?” Her voice wavered. “What do you think we should do, Ella?”

“Can we tie Calico up somehow? Leave the buggy out of sight and walk down?”

“You mean sneak down there. With Sally’s gun. Right?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Ella took a deep breath. “If someone were watching and waiting for just the perfect time . . . it’s probably nothing. But I don’t see where there’s any harm in taking precautions.”

“Tell us what to do,” Sally said.

“Let’s climb down from the carriage. We’ll lead Calico and take a wide berth around so we can see the back of the house before we decide what to do.”

“That’s good,” Ruth said with a nod. “Let’s go.”

Several minutes later the three ladies were looking down on the house . . . and two strange horses tied out back.

“Now what?” Sally said.

“I’ll walk down toward the back,” Ruth offered, “and untie those horses. I can keep the buggy whip with me for a weapon.”

Sally held the gun out to Ella. “Take this. You’ll look more . . . intimidating. It’s got a real easy trigger, so be careful. I’ll pick up a piece of kindling for a weapon when we walk by the woodpile.”

“So the two of us go in the back,” Ruth said. “And Ella goes in front. With that.” She pointed at the gun.

Ella nodded. “As soon as you spook those horses, we all charge in.” She forced a soft laugh. “If Mama and the others are sound asleep, we’ll never live this down.”

As Ella moved down the slope toward the house, she watched Ruth and Sally’s progress out of the corner of her eye. She still couldn’t see anything inside that front door. The wind wasn’t strong enough to blow it open like that—was it? Maybe those horses belonged to a couple of newcomers looking for homesteads. Maybe they’d just stopped by and been invited to stay the night before continuing on their way. Folks out here did that kind of thing often enough.
But who leaves their horses saddled overnight?
Ella closed her eyes for a second.
Please, God . . . let Mama be all right. I’ll never ask you for another thing if only Mama is all right.

Sally and Ruth had reached the corral. Ruth tied Calico to the gate. She took the buggy whip from its stanchion, and together, she and Sally moved toward the house. Ella slipped along the front of the house, pausing at the bedroom window and peering around the corner. Nothing in the room. Just the blazing oil lamp in the window. No clear view into the next room.

Slipping past the window, Ella grasped the gun with both hands, sidestepping along the front of the house until she was standing with her back against the front door. She could hear grunts . . . was that a moan?
Please, God . . . please . . .

“Yah! Git on! Yah!”

The second Sally and Ruth’s voices called out, Ella stepped through the door, planted her feet, and pointed the gun at . . .
Lowell Day.
She didn’t know the other one. Stringy yellow hair. Pale eyes glittering above a gag made from a strip of yellow calico.

Ella lowered the gun. Across the room from her, Sally and Ruth lowered wood and buggy whip. They all stared in disbelief at the scene before them—two men tied to chairs, Hettie and Caroline—the latter with a huge pistol in one hand—seated on either side of Mama, who was perched on the edge of her rocker with Caroline’s Winchester across her lap.

“Finally!” Mama said, and, jumping up, handed the rifle to Sally. “I thought you’d
never
get home!” She gestured at Ella. “I think you can put the gun down now. They aren’t going anywhere.” As she spoke, Caroline and Hettie got up, too. Caroline laid the gun she’d been holding on the kitchen table, while Hettie slid the chairs back into place.

Sally found her voice first and nodded at Lowell Day. “Is he . . . dead?”

“I don’t think so. He was breathing fine when we tied him up.” Mama shook her head. “They had it all worked out. This one”—Mama pointed to the yellow-haired man—“crept in through the door. And the second Caroline aimed her shotgun at him, the other one planned to come flying in through the window.” Mama shook her head again. “What they didn’t expect was an old lady with a frying pan.” She reenacted clocking Day’s partner.

“He’s lucky I knocked him out, because he barely missed getting shot when Caroline pulled that trigger. But then the other one came through the window and tackled Caroline. I was worried for a minute, but Hettie came to the rescue with the other pistol.” Mama beamed at Hettie. “I didn’t know you could sound so determined, Hettie.” She nodded at Ella. “But she did. You should have heard her. ‘Let go of her this instant or I will put a hole in you the size of Texas’ is what she said. Can you imagine our little Hettie saying such a thing?! Even so, I wasn’t sure we could handle him—” She pointed at Day. “So I knocked him out, too.”

“Oh, Mama.” Ella laid the gun she’d been holding atop the sewing machine and swiped at the tears of relief spilling down her cheeks.

Mama sounded defensive. “We had two of them to tie up, Ella. We couldn’t take any chances.”

Lowell Day’s eyes flickered open, and Mama shook her finger in his face. “You should be ashamed of yourself! Trying to manhandle defenseless women!” She shook her head and spoke to Ella. “He’s a bad one. But him—” She pointed at the yellow-haired stranger. “I think he’s just misguided. He came to while we were tying him up, and he was very good about doing just what he was told.

“The hardest thing,” Mama continued, “was getting that one”—she pointed at Lowell Day—“into the chair when he was still unconscious. Did you know that an unconscious man is as limp as a rag? They just flop around every which way.”

“Where’d you get enough rope to do that?” Ella nodded at the men, tied to two chairs and wrapped with more rope than she knew they had on the place.

“That was my idea,” Caroline said. “Cowboys ride with lariats.”

Mama nodded. “And it’s a good thing Caroline thought of it. We wouldn’t have had enough otherwise.”

“And the front door? Why’d you leave it open that way?” Ruth asked.

Mama beamed at Hettie and Caroline. “I told you that was a good way to let them know something was amiss.” She pointed at the two men. “We were afraid there might be more of them out there waiting for the rest of you to get back. That’s why we kept the guns ready and waited for you to come home. If there’d been more varmints on the loose, we could have threatened to shoot their friends if they didn’t stay back.”

“Did they say what they wanted?” Ella asked.

Sally kicked Day’s boot as she said, “He wanted his guns back. Ain’t that right, you slitherin’, yellow-bellied, rat-faced, yellow-toothed, 291 sour-smellin’—” She broke off. Then, with a little smile, she said, “You ain’t even worth cussin’ at.”

Ella and the other ladies of Four Corners certainly hadn’t come to Nebraska planning to become famous, but they were anyway. It happened one Sunday morning in June, when the six of them drove the two criminals seated in the back of their wagon into Plum Grove. That, in and of itself, would have made them the topic of many a conversation. But the way they did it gave the editor of the
Pioneer
fodder for quite a news story. Gagged with strips of a woman’s yellow apron. Tied to kitchen chairs with their own lariats. And guarded by three armed ladies. One shotgun, two pistols. It was like nothing Plum Grove had ever seen before, nor would likely ever see again.

As Ella drove the wagon up Main Street, people stopped whatever they were doing and stared. The town grew quiet. The unnatural quiet drew others out onto the street. By the time Ella pulled the wagon up outside the Haywood Mercantile, just about every soul in the growing town had gathered to watch what would happen. Among those souls were Jeb Cooper and Matthew Ransom. Both men loped alongside the wagon as Ella drove up Main. Will Haywood, the Village Board chairman, who would act on the matter in absence of a proper sheriff and a jail, came out of the mercantile.

And then a wonderful thing happened to Ella Barton, and it was much better than fame. Jeb Cooper reached out both arms and said, “Let me help you down, Ella.”

Don’t let go.
That was Caroline’s first thought when it was her turn for Matthew to help her down from the back of the wagon. He’d gone first to Zita . . . and then he and Jeb helped the others down. When Caroline laid her shotgun aside and took Matthew’s hand, she began to tremble. The ladies of Four Corners might have rescued themselves, but oh, it was good to be in town, where they could get some help. Where something besides her shotgun and a bit of rope would stand between her and Lowell Day. Where Matthew—should he take a notion to do so—could hold her. And he did. Just for a moment before Will Haywood commandeered the now-empty dining hall for a courtroom.

Will asked the ladies to sit down and write out formal complaints. When Sally said she “didn’t write so good,” Will offered to write for her. And so it began. The ladies gathered around a table writing, Sally at another table speaking in a low voice while Will Haywood wrote, and the two criminals still tied to chairs with Matthew Ransom and Jeb Cooper stationed at the door.

After what seemed like half the morning, with each member of the Village Board reading over the ladies’ written statements and preparing to take down testimony from Lowell Day and his partner, Charlie Obermeyer—one of the board members recognized him and was able to provide his name—Will apologized for having to ask them to stay, but he thought it best for the men to have to face their accusers when they said their piece.

The minute Charlie’s gag came off, he began to jabber. “I wasn’t there when Day tried to hurt that lady”—he nodded at Caroline—“I had nothin’ to do with—”

“Shut your trap.” Day struggled against the ropes and nearly tipped his chair over with the effort.

Matthew grabbed Day’s chair and jerked him several feet away from Charlie, then stood between them.

Charlie spoke again. “I ain’t gonna hang. I didn’t do nothing to hang for. We didn’t steal anything. I’ll tell you everything. It was him. It was all his idea.”