The Rustler (3 page)

The
big
kid, Gideon, gave Wyatt a suspicious once-over and took off for the festivities down by the creek. It was full dark by then, and fireworks spread like chrysanthemums against the sky. Wyatt, Rowdy and the baby sat on the porch steps in front of Rowdy's small house, conveniently located in back of the jail, listening to the crickets, the sound of distant merriment, and the tinny tune of some saloon piano. Lark was inside, doing the things women did after they'd served a meal.

“You've done well for yourself, Rob,” Wyatt said quietly, using his brother's given name. “A fine woman, a steady job, a son. I envy you a little.”

Rowdy leaned back on the porch step, resting on his elbows. Silvery light from the fireworks caught in his fair hair. “No reason you can't have the same,” he said.

“No reason except two years in a Texas prison,” Wyatt replied. He'd told Sarah straight out that he'd robbed trains, but he hadn't mentioned the stretch behind bars. With a woman, a little honesty went a long way.

“Everybody's done things they're not proud of, Wyatt.” Rowdy shifted, looked reluctant. “About Sarah—”

“What about her?” Wyatt asked, too quickly.

Rowdy considered a little longer before answering. “She works in her father's bank,” he said. “Every cowpoke between here and Tucson has tried to court her, but she's having none of it. I think she's one of those—well—
career women.
”

“Career women?” Wyatt echoed. During supper, he'd learned that Lark had inherited a whole railroad from her first husband, and she ran it from Stone Creek, by mail and telegram, with a baby balanced on one hip. “You mean, like your wife?”

Rowdy colored up a little. “Lark's different,” he said. “Womanly.”

Wyatt considered the fire he'd glimpsed in Sarah's blue eyes, her slender waist, her delectable breasts, ripe for holding in a man's hands. He imagined taking the pins from her ebony-colored hair and watching it fall to her hips in heavy, silken waves. She was “womanly” enough for him, and then some.

“I might as well tell you,” he told Rowdy, “that I intend to marry Sarah Tamlin as soon as I've got steady wages coming in.”

Rowdy's mouth fell open. “Wyatt, you just
met
her. She's got a temper, and she plays poker.”

Wyatt chuckled. “
Poker?
Even better!”

“She smokes cigars,” Rowdy said.

“I might have to break her of that,” Wyatt replied, enjoying the image of delicate little Sarah puffing on a stogy.

Rowdy thrust out a sigh. “Wyatt, what I'm trying to tell you is, she won't have you. You're an outlaw. She's a blue-blooded banker's daughter with a college education.”

“And I'm not good enough for her?”

Rowdy started to protest.

“Hold on,” Wyatt said, handing Hank over, since he felt a little soggy around the posterior region. “I
know
I'm not good enough for Sarah. Pappy wasn't good enough for Ma, either, but she loved him until the day she died.”

Sadness flickered in Rowdy's eyes. He'd been Miranda's favorite, her boy Rob, and he was younger than Wyatt. He couldn't be expected to remember the early days, how she'd laughed and sung under her breath whenever Pappy came home from his travels.

“She wasn't happy,” Rowdy said.

“She bore Pappy six sons,” Wyatt reminded him. “Ma had plenty of chances to leave, Rowdy. She was a good-looking woman. Even after we were old enough to take care of ourselves, she stayed right on that farm. Why do you think she did that?”

Rowdy relaxed a little. “Ma was Ma. Sarah is Sarah. She'd never throw in with an outlaw, Wyatt. She'd figure you were after her papa's money, or out to rob his bank.”

Wyatt stood, stretched. Rowdy and Lark's house was small, so he'd be sharing an empty jail cell with Gideon until he found a bunk someplace. “Where can a man get a bath in this town?” he asked.

Rowdy laughed. “We've got a real fancy tub right here in the house—hot running water, the whole works. Talk of the town. You can use that.”

Wyatt didn't want to disrupt the household, and he felt shy about stripping down under the same roof with a married woman. It was an unfamiliar compunction. “I'd rather not do that,” he said.

“Then I'll drag a washtub into the jailhouse and you can heat water on the stove,” Rowdy said, rising to his feet, the baby in the curve of his arm. “I've got some extra clothes you can wear until we get you some duds.”

“Pump water will do,” Wyatt said. “If it wasn't for that revival, I'd go down to the creek to bathe.” He swallowed a good-size portion of his pride. “And I'll pay you back for the new rigging, Rowdy.”

“I know,” Rowdy answered.

An hour later, alone in the jailhouse, Wyatt poured the last bucket of water into an old tin washtub, dented and spotted with rust, peeled off his clothes, and sank into it.

It wasn't the Blood of the Lamb, but for the time being, it would do.

G
IDEON ALMOST GOT HIMSELF SHOT
, banging into the jail like he did, in the middle of the night, with Wyatt sleep-flummoxed and in the altogether and all. He had the .45 cocked and aimed before he realized where he was, and who he was dealing with.

“Shit,” Wyatt said, wrenching the thin blanket up over himself and falling back on his cot with a sigh of relief, the pistol still in his right hand. “You oughtn't to bust in on a man like that. I nearly put a bullet in you.”

Gideon slouched onto the cot opposite Wyatt's, illuminated by a beam of moonlight straying in through the barred window, and wrenched off one of his boots. “I
live
here,” he said, and it was clear from his tone that he was none too pleased to be sharing his quarters. “Except when there's a prisoner, of course. Anyhow, it wouldn't have been the first time somebody put a bullet in me.”

Therein lies a tale, Wyatt thought.

“Hell of a place to call home,” he said, grimacing a little at the irony of the whole situation. After two years in the hoosegow, he'd ended up sleeping behind bars again. He reckoned it was God's idea of a joke. “Where do you sleep when somebody gets themselves arrested?”

“Around,” Gideon said, after a long and studious pause. “I'll be heading out for college pretty soon. I mean to be a Pinkerton man, or sign on as a Wells Fargo agent.”

The underlying message was clear enough:
Don't go thinking I mean to be an outlaw, like you, just because we're kin.

“Who'd have thought it,” Wyatt mused, in a wry undertone, staring up at the low, shadowed ceiling of the cell. “Two of Payton Yarbro's boys turning out to be lawmen. He must be rolling over in his grave.”

The boy stripped to his skivvies and stretched out on the cot. “Pappy died fighting for what was right,” he said. “What are you doing here? In Stone Creek, I mean?”

“Just looking for a place to be,” Wyatt answered. He didn't expect the kid to trust him, the way Rowdy did. He and Gideon might have the same blood flowing through their veins, but in every other way, they were strangers. In fact, he kind of admired his younger brother's caution, figuring it must have come from their ma's side, since Pappy had never—to Wyatt's knowledge anyway—exhibited the trait. “Who shot you?”

“Happened at a dance,” Gideon answered. “I'll tell you about it some other time.” For a few minutes after that, he was quiet, except for some creaking of the old rope springs supporting his mattress as he settled his sizable frame for sleep.

The silence, though blessed to Wyatt's ears, did not endure. “I saw you walking Sarah Tamlin home today,” Gideon remarked. “And I reckon you know her father owns the Stockman's Bank.”

Wyatt smiled in the darkness, though a wing of sadness brushed the back of his heart. Most likely, he'd never really know Gideon, or be known by him, since the boy was bound for some far-off place. College. It was a thing Wyatt couldn't imagine, though he'd read every book he could get his hands on. “You figure I've switched from holding up trains to robbing banks?”

“I'm just warning you, that's all. Rowdy takes his job as marshal seriously. Brother or not, if you break the law, he'll shut that door on you and turn the key. Don't think he won't.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Wyatt said dryly.

Another pause descended, long and awkward. The boy was brimming with questions, Wyatt knew, but asking them required some pride-swallowing.

“Tell me about the others,” Gideon murmured.

“The others?” Wyatt hedged.

“You know who I mean—Nicholas and Ethan and Levi. Pa told me their names, but not much else.”

“It's late,” Wyatt answered. “If you want to know more about the family history, why don't you ask Rowdy?”

“He won't talk about them.”

“Maybe he's got reason, and you ought to accept that and let the matter rest.”

“I've got a right to know about my own brothers, don't I?”

Again, a sigh escaped Wyatt. He cupped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, but sleep, the delicious, dreamless refuge he'd been enjoying earlier, eluded him. “Did it ever occur to you that it might be better all around if you didn't? It isn't always so, but there's some truth in that old adage about ignorance being bliss.”

“Tell me.”

“Will you shut up and let me sleep if I do? I've got things to do in the morning—like find work.”

“I will,” Gideon agreed staunchly.

“I'm the eldest,” Wyatt recited dutifully. “Nick is a year younger. He's always been a bit on the delicate side, not much for outlawing. Last I heard, he was living in Boston, writing poems and starving. By now, he's probably contracted consumption—he'd enjoy a disease like that. Then come the twins—Ethan and Levi. Levi's a little slow—and Ethan is a born killer. Rowdy is next in line, and I figure you probably know as much about him as he wants you to.”

“What was he like—before?”

“Tough. Fast with a gun. Smart as hell. Not much he was ever scared of, as far as I could tell. That's how he got the nickname. Ma called him by his given name, Rob—she had a soft spot for him.” Wyatt thought he heard the boy swallow hard, over there on his cot. It struck him—with a brief but hard pang—that he probably knew more about Billy Justice and the members of his gang than he did about Gideon, his own brother.

“Pappy said Ma died having me,” Gideon said quietly, revealing a great deal more about himself in that one statement than he'd probably intended.

“It wasn't your fault,” Wyatt said.

There was a shrug in Gideon's voice when he answered. “She'd be alive now, if it hadn't been for me,” he argued.

“You can't know that for sure,” Wyatt pointed out, feeling sorry for the kid. It was a rung up the ladder, he reckoned, from feeling sorry for
himself
—he'd done enough of that in prison.

Gideon was quiet again, but just long enough for Wyatt to start hoping the palavering was over, so he could drift back into oblivion. He slept like a dead man, and rarely remembered his dreams, if he had any, and he considered that a blessing. Other men he'd known, back in Texas, hadn't been so fortunate.

“There are some things a man just has to let go of,” he told Gideon.

“I reckon,” Gideon agreed, but without much conviction.

Wyatt rolled onto his side, with his back to his brother, and punched down his pillow, though it was already flat, figuring his saddle would have served better. Been cleaner, too. “Good night,” he said, with a yawn.

“What was she like?” Gideon asked. “Ma, I mean.”

Wyatt suppressed another sigh. Stayed on his side, eyes wide-open, staring at the splintery, raw-timbered wall. “She was a fine woman,” he said. “Half again too good for Pappy, that's for certain. She loved him, though.”

At last, Gideon fell silent, though Wyatt knew there would be more questions, right along. With luck, they'd be ones he could answer.

 

T
HE MORNING AFTER
Wyatt Yarbro walked her home from the revival picnic, Sarah overslept. She bolted awake, flustered, and scrambled out of bed, groping for her wrapper, wrenching it on, not bothering to shove her bare feet into house slippers.

“Papa?” she called, from the top of the back stairs leading down into the kitchen.
“Papa!”

Dear God, suppose he'd wandered off again? The last time, he'd sneaked out wearing only a striped nightshirt and his best beaver top hat; she'd been lucky then, catching up to him at the corner, but Mrs. Madison, their neighbor, had witnessed the spectacle. Sarah had lied, smiling a brittle smile and explaining, perhaps too quickly, that her father had been sleepwalking lately.

The lying hadn't been the worst part, though—Sarah lied on a daily basis, to such an extent that she made notes in a ledger book in order to be consistent. No, the terrible thing had been seeing her intelligent, affable father looking so bewildered.

The back door was still locked; Sarah rushed to the front.

Ephriam Tamlin, founder, president and holder of majority shares in the Stockman's Bank, sat on the porch step, spine straight, a shotgun lying across his knees. He'd stuffed himself into a moth-eaten army uniform, Union blue.

Sarah put a hand to her heart. Drew a deep breath. “Papa,” she said, careful to speak softly, so she wouldn't startle him.

“They've come, Nancy Anne,” he said, without turning to look up at her. “The Rebs are here.”

Sarah sat down beside him, tightening the belt of her wrapper and offering a silent prayer that no one would pass on the sidewalk and see them taking the morning air in such inappropriate garb. She reached for the shotgun, but Ephriam gripped it with strong, age-spotted hands.

“I saw their tent,” Ephriam went on. “Bold as Lucifer, those Confederates. Made camp right on the banks of Stone Creek. Heaven help us all if it's Quantrill.”

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, swallowed a hard lump of misery before attempting to speak. She laid a gentle hand on the faded blue sleeve of her father's coat. “Papa,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

He turned, his kindly blue eyes blinking behind the thick, smudged lenses of his spectacles. This was the man who had been her rock, before and after her mother died. He'd protected her, provided for her. Helped her keep a shattering secret. Now, he looked befuddled, as though he knew he ought to be able to place her, but couldn't quite manage it.

“It's me, Papa,” she said. “Sarah. And the war has been over for forty-two years.”

He blinked again, rapidly now, and looked down at his ancient uniform and the shotgun resting across his lap. He was sixty-seven, too young for dementia. “I've had another spell,” he said, with a look of such mortified regret that Sarah felt bruised inside.

Gently, she took the shotgun from his hands. “No harm done,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. It probably wasn't true, of course. He'd glimpsed Brother Hickey's tent and mistaken it for a Confederate camp, and unless he'd followed the creek both ways, he must have walked right through town—dressed up in his old uniform, with the shotgun held smartly against his shoulder, like a soldier on patrol. Heaven only knew how many people had seen him, and were even now passing the word over fences and clotheslines.

“I'm sorry, Sarah,” he said, looking so wretched that fresh tears scalded her eyes.

“Come inside and change,” she replied, with an attempt at a reassuring smile. “I'll make breakfast, and we'll go to the bank and attend to business, just like we always do.”

Ephriam nodded, rose stiffly from the step. Looked down at his uniform with a rueful shake of his head. “I'm not the man I used to be,” he said sadly.

“Nonsense,” Sarah said briskly, once they were inside the house and out of sight of the neighbors. She set the shotgun aside with caution and straightened his blue coat. “You're Ephriam Tamlin, head of the Stockman's Bank. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

 

T
HE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR SHOWED
up just as Rowdy, Gideon, Lark and Wyatt were finishing up their morning meal. Stood panting in the open doorway, skinny and sweating, a sheet of yellow paper clasped in one hand.

Rowdy immediately pushed back his chair and rose.

The baby, perched on Lark's lap while she spooned oatmeal into his mouth, started at the commotion, and old Pardner gave a questioning bark but didn't rise from the hooked rug next to the cookstove.

“There's been a lynching down near Haven,” sputtered the little man on the threshold. He looked like a scarecrow in Sunday clothes. “Bunch of ranchers caught a couple of cattle thieves and strung 'em up. They want you to come. You and Sam O'Ballivan. I sent Zeke Reynolds out to Stone Creek Ranch with the news.”

A chill trickled down Wyatt's spine. For a moment, he was out there under that rustler's moon again, in the aftermath of a storm and a stampede he'd been lucky to survive, distant shots echoing in his ears.

Rowdy snatched the telegram from the messenger's hand and scanned it a couple of times, in the way of a man who hoped it might say something different if he read it enough. Swore under his breath.

“You're not a Ranger anymore,” Lark said quietly, gazing at her husband with luminous brown eyes. Her hair was fair, like Rowdy's, and shorter than most women's, just touching her shoulders. “And you're the marshal of Stone Creek, not Haven.”

“If Sam goes,” Rowdy told his wife, avoiding her eyes, “I'll be riding with him.”

“Me, too,” Gideon said.

Wyatt didn't speak, and that was a hard thing, not offering to help. If there was one place he couldn't afford to be seen in, it was that little border town, just outside of which he and Billy Justice and the boys had helped themselves to more than five hundred head of cattle.