The Last Chance Ranch (9 page)

"No,” Obie shot back, feeling a little defensive. “Just the first one... the first time...."

Ben's hand settled over his, and Obie knew he understood.

Porter snorted again and left the room, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. When they were alone, Ben tugged Obie closer until they were lying side by side. Hearing Ben's heartbeat, feeling the heat coming off his body, calmed Obie, and he snuggled in like a puppy. Long moments went by without any words between them. Eventually Ben stirred and laid a kiss on Obie's hair. “Feeling better?"

"Yeah."

"Good, ‘cause I want you to do something for me. Go on into town and tell the sheriff what happened."

"Aw, hell, what for? You know that fat old man won't do a thing about it. Arne de Groot's got him bought and paid for."

"Henry don't like our kind, it's true, but he's still the law. Even if he don't do nothing, we'll do what we're supposed to."

Obie sat up and regarded his lover with a worried frown. “You really don't think Dutch plugged you?"

"No,” Ben replied, gingerly shifting his injured leg.

Just like that, Obie was up and pacing again. “Just last year he let those mill boys beat the tar outta you."

"Arne's a blowhard, and he don't think twice about bustin’ heads, but he's no coward. He'd like to shoot me, all right, but he'd do it to my face, not hidin’ in the bushes."

"So who then?"

"I've got enemies enough,” Ben said, but something in his tone told Obie the man knew, or at least suspected, more than he was saying. Obie knew better than to ask again, though. Ben was among the most stubborn men going, and couldn't be made to speak before he was damn good and ready.

The muted sound of raised voices drew Obie to the door. He opened it halfway and stuck his head out, listening to Juanita swearing and shouting in Spanish. It took him a few minutes to get the gist of things, and then he turned back and gave Ben a grin. “Your horse is back. And it's eating the geraniums out of her flowerbox."

At Ben's insistence, Obie took Lonnie and Porter into town with him. For all he was a gentle soul, Lonnie had the size to make anyone think twice about starting trouble. And Porter... well, the man was a puzzle. He wasn't big or muscled, but something about the way he held himself, the way he wore his black hat pulled down low over his pitted face, the way he rarely spoke—all of it gave Porter a distinctly dangerous air. Obie was glad to have both of them along, especially when they checked in at the jail and didn't find Henry Sumner. While there was always a chance that the sheriff was out and about doing his job, Obie was a gambler at heart and knew long odds when he saw them. The smart money was on the saloon.

Sure enough, the sheriff was at the bar, his gross bulk leaning over a glass of whiskey. He didn't look up when the Bar J hands walked in, just kept staring into his drink with yellow-tinged eyes. Obie imagined that if he went far enough back in Henry's life, he might see a man without a paunch hanging over his belt, without long years of too much liquor bloating and blotching his face. Maybe, he thought, he might even find a man who wasn't as lazy and hateful as a beaten jackass.

"Sheriff.” Obie crossed his arms, already feeling impatient with this fool's errand. “We're here to report a crime."

Henry picked up his glass and drained it, then set it down and gestured for the bartender to refill it. “What sort of crime?” His tone told Obie he couldn't care less.

"Somebody shot Ben on the road to town, near the cutoff to Barstow's spread."

Henry didn't even look up. “Really."

"Yes, really, damnit."

"Well. Did he see who did it?"

Obie ground his teeth. “No, he didn't see who did it. He was too busy bleedin’ at the time."

"So he's not dead, then?"

"No, God damn it!” Obie all but yelled.

"Sorry to disappoint you,” Porter muttered darkly.

Henry drank down another mouthful of whiskey and smacked his lips. “Well,” he sighed, shifting his bulk on the barstool. “No witnesses, not much I can do."

"Not much you can do,” Obie sneered. “Wouldn't want you to go out and take a look or ask some questions. Hell, you might have to get up off the damn stool. Don't think your heart could take the strain."

"Watch it, boy.” At last Obie had the sheriff's undivided attention. “You Bar J boys are so quick to run your damn mouths. Always comin’ into town like you own the place, bothering normal, decent folk with your unnatural ways. And then you got the nerve to be surprised when somebody takes a shot at one of ya!” Henry was working himself up into a fine state, an ugly flush creeping up from his neck to tinge his face red. He pushed himself off his barstool with a wheeze and took an unsteady step in their direction, his voice growing louder. “Why don't you go on back to that ranch, before somebody takes a shot at you too!"

Obie's patience, not too long on the best of days, stretched past its breaking point. “You threatenin’ me, old man? ‘Cause so help me—” Porter laid a firm hand on his shoulder and twitched his head toward the corner. Obie left off his rant to follow his gaze.

At first, all he saw was the usual table of rowdy mill workers, drunk and loud in the middle of the day. Seated with them, smoking the stub of a cigar, was Captain Vargas. And the bastard was smiling right at him. Obie felt his heart quicken. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths before turning back to the sheriff. When he spoke, it was with a low, dangerous voice that few had ever heard him use.

"You don't want to do your damn job, that's fine with me. We'll take care of things ourselves."

Henry narrowed his eyes, giving him the look of a rooting pig. “Don't you go takin’ the law into your own hands, boy."

"I guess I will,” Obie growled. “Tell you somethin’ else for free. We'll go wherever we damn well please, and we won't stand to be threatened.” The sheriff's face flushed deeper, almost purple, but before he could speak, Obie cut him off. “Go back to your bottle, old man.” With that, he dismissed Henry outright and headed to the mill boys’ table.

He stopped, aware of Lonnie and Porter flanking him, and fixed his eye on Vargas. “Still in town,
El Capitan
?"

The Mexican smiled with his mouthful of ghastly teeth. “I like it here,” he said, pulling his cigar from his teeth and waving it in their general direction. “Since I no longer have an army, I find myself with,
como se dice?
Time to kill."

The mill boys laughed. Obie clenched his fists and kept his focus on Vargas. “If I were to find out it was you who took a shot at Ben—"

"Me? Why would I do such a thing? I bear no ill will to the man. It was a simple misunderstanding.” False sincerity oozed out of the man, along with his big, phony smile. “Besides, I have been here all day. My new friends here will tell you."

One of the mill boys glared up at them from behind a bushy, blond beard and moustache. “That's right. He's been here with us all day. Why don't you run on back to your pervert ranch, faggot? Before you get hurt."

Lonnie leaned in close, his muscles flexing through the thin fabric of his work shirt. “Somebody's gonna get hurt, all right."

On Obie's other side, Porter had produced a hoof pick and was calmly cleaning his nails with it. “This is a dangerous town,” he remarked. “Man gets shot just mindin’ his own business. Makes you think anything could happen. To anybody. Probably not wise for a fella to travel alone.” His dark eyes flicked to Vargas, his meaning unmistakable. For a long moment, no one spoke. The air felt thick with tension as they all eyed each other and waited to see who'd make a move first.

"Awright, break it up,” Henry blustered, stumbling into their midst. “I don't want no trouble in here. You boys head out of town, right this minute."

Obie held his stance a moment longer, then turned on his heel and headed for the door, the other Bar J hands following him. The sheriff made good with a parting comment.

"Tell Ben, next time he gets shot, he oughta pay more attention."

Face flaming with impotent rage, mocking laughter at his back, Obie stalked from the saloon.

[Back to Table of Contents]

It didn't take long for life to get back to normal at the ranch. Ben spent some time on the porch with his leg up, scribbling on bits of paper that he wouldn't let anyone, even Obie, get a look at. After a few days, he refused to sit still any longer and hobbled around the ranch on a crutch.

Temper was especially busy in the days right after the big storm. At Ben's request, he set about teaching the others how to plane down rough boards from fallen trees. It was hard, slow work with hand tools, but they had the trees and needed the lumber so there was nothing else for it. When they were done, they'd have enough to tide them over, but the lumber shortage still weighed heavy on everyone. For Temper, the work was automatic and mindless, giving him plenty of time to think. Too much time maybe, since his brain kept coming back to Larry and James Arcady and the situation between them.

On the one hand, Larry was no helpless boy. He was a man full grown and capable of taking care of himself. In his place, Temper might not have been too pleased to get help he hadn't looked for. There were some things a man preferred to take care of his own self. On the other hand, Temper knew there were some things that scared a man beyond all reason, left him helpless to manage his own business. Temper himself couldn't hardly look at the smallest, most harmless snake without damn near pissing his britches and crying for his mama, dead these long years. He thought that Arcady was like a snake in Larry's eyes, hypnotic and terrifying. And Temper didn't know whether he could stand by and watch as the jaws closed and Larry was slowly poisoned to death.

In the end, he did what he always did when he had an unquiet mind: he prayed. The answer to his problem remained just outside his reach, and he felt the desperate need to talk to someone, get somebody else's take on things. But there was no way he could talk about Larry's private business with the men he had to work with every day. He resolved to approach Father Percy after services on Sunday.

Where most of the men looked forward to Saturday night and the trip to the saloon, Temper found himself counting the days until Sunday. As he usually did, he spent Saturday night in a room above the saloon. It was clean, more or less, though coated with a fine layer of dirt like everything else in town. The dry air carried it into every nook and cranny, where it clung to everything and everyone like a second skin. He did his best to knock it off his boots and brush it from his hat and coat before stepping into the church the next morning.

Tucking his hat under his arm, he cast around for a seat and found one in the back row. He looked around as the room filled, noting the small but lovingly kept room with its modest altar flanked by sad, limp bouquets of dried flowers. A large, plain cross hung on the wall behind it. Dust motes danced like fairies in the sunlight drifting lazily in through the tall windows, as the scuff of boots and shoes made their way across the board floor. Temper was subjected to the usual array of suspicious stares as well as a few polite nods.

Father Percy entered through a side door, resplendent in a white cassock trimmed in black. Temper wondered how he kept it clean. The congregation settled and fell quiet as the pastor moved to the pulpit and paged through his Bible. He was fairly unimpressive to look at: thin and stooped, his skin covered with age spots. When he raised his head to look out over the faithful, loose skin wobbled under his chin like the wattle of a turkey. “Good morning, friends!” he boomed. While preaching, he had a voice that belonged to a much larger, much younger man, amplified by the high rafters of the room.

Father Percy read a list of announcements and parishioners needing special prayers and launched into the day's sermon. It wasn't the most rousing performance Temper had ever seen, but he'd certainly heard far worse in the many churches he'd visited during his travels. They finished off with two hymns. Temper knew them both by heart and added his baritone to the chorus.

Father Percy was standing outside the door, ready with a handshake and a word of greeting for each parishioner. Temper lingered in the background, waiting for a chance to speak to him alone. When the last of the faithful had gone, Percy turned and looked him over with a practiced eye. “Come back inside, son.” He gestured. “It's already too hot out here for my tastes, and it's not even nine o'clock.” They went back into the relative coolness of the church, where Percy motioned for him to sit. The old man looked at him with sharp, knowing eyes. “How are you getting on out at the Bar J?"

Temper was immediately on his guard. There seemed to be two camps of people in this town: those that knew about Ben's “habits” and didn't seem to care, and those that found it disgusting and actively wished the man harm. Temper was already fond of his boss and wouldn't take kindly to any wanting to abuse him. His caution must have showed in his face.

"Easy, son,” Father Percy soothed, “I just want to see how you're settling in. It can be hard for a man of faith to accept certain behaviors goin’ on in his vicinity. Believe me, I know firsthand."

"I'm getting on all right. Mr. Johnson's a good boss."

"And a fine man. He put the roof on this very church last spring."

Temper looked up automatically, as if the roof were some great curiosity.

"Ben and I have had our differences over the years,” Father Percy continued, brushing at the sleeve of his robe. “I used to hound him like a vengeful spirit, calling curses down on him for being a sodomite."

Temper grinned. “I don't expect he paid you much mind."

"Hah! He tolerated me like a parent would a tedious child, all patient looks and kind smiles. It drove me crazy."

"He seems good at that."

"Indeed he is. Anyway, last year when he was attacked, I found myself presented with a choice. Turn my back on a good man, a good neighbor, because he didn't meet my standards of behavior? Side with thugs and ruffians? Stand by and do nothing? None of these felt like the right thing to do. In that second, standing in the rain watching Ben get beaten, God showed me my path."