Wanderlust Creek and Other Stories (21 page)

A heavy step on the ground close by him, the
snick of a roweled spur, and then someone grasped him and dragged
him up to his feet. The blood rushed stingingly back to Ray’s head,
bringing him more alive; the fog melted away from before his eyes,
leaving only the reality of the dusk. Jones held him upright, grim
satisfaction in his light eyes glinting from the hard creases of a
face that seemed one with the darkest shadows. Cooley was nearby
doing something with a coil of rope—he tilted his head up. “This
one strong enough?”

“It’ll do.”

Cooley slung the rope over a branch
overhead, pulled the end down, and came over. Jones had the other
end in his hand, and while Cooley gripped Ray’s arms from behind
Jones forced the noose roughly over his head.

Somewhere a bit of the wire fence flashed in
Ray’s vision, and then as his head turned back, that cold little
smile on Jones’ face. Ray knew what was happening now. The cattle,
the fence, the rope; it fell together like pieces in a puzzle. It
was a frame-up—they would claim they had caught him stealing
McDonough’s cattle and had taken it upon themselves to serve
justice on the spot.

He said, the words still thick in his mouth
from the blow on the head, “You won’t get away with it.”

Jones gave a short laugh, so insignificant
as to be ridicule. “There’s nobody to say we’re lying,” he said.
“That old fool Kinney would’ve done the same thing if he caught
somebody rustling his stock—
before
he was sheriff. And he
knows McDonough and you ain’t been too friendly.”

There was an evil relish in his voice, the
same as had showed on his face in the trading-post. “You’ve crossed
me twice too often, Collins.”

Cooley brought up Ray’s horse, and between
them they shoved him up across the saddle. Jones grabbed him by the
coat and jerked him upright, and the rope rasped and burned against
his neck. Ray still felt strangely unmoved, distant, even at the
rough handling, as if he could not yet believe that what was going
to happen to him could possibly happen. But it was. Nothing was
stopping them. They would likely get away with it, too—the only
person who could have spoken for his innocence was Chris Borden,
who was miles away by now…and Gloria…

A wave of sickness nearly made him reel in
the saddle. The thought of Gloria flayed through the numbness with
sharp agony. He was seeing her dark eyes, feeling her lips, hearing
the soft worry in her voice when she had bid him goodbye. He’d told
her to come out and meet him in the morning…she would come out here
alone, and she would find…Oh, God, no…

He looked down at Jones, a sick sweat
standing out on his face. If only the amusement he read in Jones’
face was satisfaction at seeing him weaken, if only he would not
guess the thoughts going through Ray’s mind. She would be alone
now—there would be no one to protect her—

Cooley finished lashing the other end of the
rope to a tree, and both of them mounted their own horses. Jones
made the brown back up until he was directly under the branch—the
horse tossed its head and shifted its feet unwillingly. Ray stared
straight ahead, to where a heifer with a McDonough brand was
tearing placidly at a bush. He was going to die, and there was
nothing he could do to stop it…

Jones dropped the brown horse’s reins and
pulled his own horse back. Then from away in the brush came a faint
shout—near enough that Jones and Cooley both jerked sharply around
toward the sound. Three riders were bearing down on them at a trot,
one a little in advance of the other two, already close enough to
have a good view of what was happening. Cooley swore breathlessly
and yanked his horse around as if to strike hastily at the flank of
Ray’s horse, but Jones grabbed the brown’s bridle and stopped him
with a hissed, “Hold it, you fool!”

The straggling cattle lumbered aside out of
the way as McDonough drew near, bits of mud flying up from his
horse’s hooves. The newcomers pushed up into the little clearing,
the other two drawing up alongside the rancher. Ray did not look at
McDonough or Kinney; his eyes were fixed on Gloria’s pale,
wide-eyed face, clinging to it like a lifeline.

“What’s going on here?” demanded McDonough
even before he reined up.

“Just dealing with a cattle thief,” said
Jones, his voice bold and harsh. “Caught him red-handed with a
bunch of your yearlings, boss. Look at ‘em. He was fixin’ the fence
back up when we caught him after he’d run ‘em through.” McDonough
glanced around at the cattle that surrounded them, but his frown
was indecisive. Jones, watching him, added loudly to sway the
balance, “Only one way to deal with a thief.”

“That’s a lie,” said Ray through his teeth.
The words came out louder and hoarser than he had intended. “When I
got here those cattle were right where they are now and the fence
had already been fixed. I’d just started tearing off the wires so I
could drive them out when these two jumped me from behind—on
this
side of the fence.”

“Aw, that’s a likely story,” sneered Cooley.
“If we’d cut the fence to water the boss’s cattle what’d we want to
close it up again for? It’ll take a better’n’ than that to save
your neck now.”

“It’s true!” cried Gloria. She had slipped
down from her horse while they were talking, and now pushed her way
forward. She turned toward McDonough, who had also dismounted. “Ray
found the cattle in here earlier before he went to see you. He told
me about it, and he told me he was going to drive them out and fix
the fence.”

“So he says,” put in Silas Kinney, a little
sourly, from horseback, “but Miz Collins, did you
see
them
cattle here with your own eyes?”

“How—
dare
you!” sputtered Gloria,
turning on him in sudden crimson-cheeked fury. “What are you here
to be, a sheriff or an echo? Are you that determined to see him in
trouble that you’d accuse my husband of lying to me? Why don’t you
accuse us both of stealing your cattle; you’d be just as close to
the truth!” She flung the last at McDonough with quivering
vehemence.

“I’m not accusing anybody of anything!” said
McDonough loudly. He seemed to hear himself and lowered his voice.
He said more calmly, “All I want to know is how the cattle got
here.”

“Well, so do I,” said Silas Kinney
disagreeably, cutting off Jones and Cooley as both started to speak
up at once. He glared at them, and they had little choice but to
fall silent, with lowering looks.

“Get that rope off his neck,” said McDonough
to Jones.

Jones did as he was told, though not with a
very good grace. He pulled the noose slack with deliberate
roughness, and his hand clipped Ray’s jaw in getting the loop over
his head. Something tight and tense seemed to loosen in Ray’s chest
with the strangling pressure of the rope off his throat, and he
realized for the first time how much he had been afraid. He twisted
his head a little as if to assure himself of his freedom, and tried
to keep his voice level and hard.

“I’m not making it all up out of my head,”
he said. “Chris Borden told me that you were having your boys cut
my fence and water stock here at the creek. He’d helped move some
of the cattle himself.”

“He said
that?
” said McDonough. He
gave a dismissive shake of the head. “I never told them to do
anything of the sort. Where’d he get the idea? Did he actually say
I gave him the order?”

Gloria’s eyes happened to be on Cooley as
McDonough spoke, and she noticed a sudden flash of uneasiness on
his slack face. Both he and Jones had seemed suddenly attentive at
the mention of Chris Borden. Gloria looked at McDonough—his
attention was also directed toward the two cowboys, and she thought
he had seen it too.

Ray was beginning to catch on. “No,” he
said, with dawning comprehension, “he didn’t actually say that you
told them—he just said he was told. Somebody told him it was orders
from the top.”

“It was—” Gloria’s voice seemed startlingly
clear in the thick silence and she checked herself with a short
indrawn breath as all the men looked at her; and then the words
came out calmly. “I heard him say it. He said Cooley told him it
was orders from the top.”

McDonough pivoted slowly to face his men.
His hands were on his hips and his heavy brows lowered in an
expression that boded no good. “So that was it,” he said. “You
moved these cattle in here hoping to start trouble, so you’d have
an excuse to do this”—he jerked a hand at the noose dangling over
their heads—”and get away with it.”

“They’ve tangled twice afore,” said Silas
Kinney, in the background.

“You’re all out of your minds,” said
Jones.

“Chris can tell you about that too. You can
probably still catch up to him if you want his word on it,” said
Ray, still speaking to McDonough, and without turning his head
toward Jones.

Cooley started to sputter in a voice pitched
high with tension, but Jones cut him off again with a hard curse
low in his throat that made Gloria flinch.

McDonough switched his gaze to Ray. “Why in
the name of sense didn’t you
tell
me all of this earlier? If
I’d known what Borden said I could have told you then and there it
was nonsense.”

“I was too mad to think of it. Chris thought
it was true and I believed him.” Ray spoke in short, clipped
sentences in the effort to control his voice.

McDonough looked at the two cowboys again,
and then spoke over his shoulder to Kinney. “You’d better take
these two into town. I’ll come along with you if you need me.”

Silas Kinney gave a peremptory jerk of the
head to the two men. Their expressions were ugly, but
futile—McDonough was watching them too, with his hands on his hips
again, and they evidently knew their employer well enough to know
that objection would not serve them well. They steered their horses
slowly out in single file in the direction the sheriff pointed, and
Kinney fell in behind them, guiding them away through the brush
with his bony hand resting conspicuously near his holstered
Colt.

As they left the clearing, McDonough moved
over beside Ray’s horse, and reached up behind him to untie his
hands. McDonough loosened the rope and Ray slowly moved his hands
in front of him, letting his stiffened shoulders relax. Gloria had
come up beside them, and she waited, her eyes never leaving her
husband, until Ray slid down from the horse to stand beside
her.

“I’m sorry about all this,” said
McDonough.

“No,” said Ray. “I’m the one who owes you an
apology, for what I said earlier. I didn’t have any right.”

“I think we can forget about that,” said
McDonough.

“I can’t,” said Ray, lifting his head a
little. “I owe you more than an apology. If you weren’t honest, I’d
be hanging from that tree right now.” He jerked his head toward the
branch, a little unsteadiness in the motion.

McDonough smiled, slowly. “All right,” he
said, “have it your way.”

They shook hands. Gloria, standing quietly
at Ray’s elbow, saw the look of mutual respect that passed between
them. McDonough said, “Don’t bother about the cattle; I’ll send
some of my boys to get them out tomorrow.” He added, “It won’t
happen again.”

He looked at Gloria, and touched his
hat—again there was a silent acknowledgement in his brief smile.
Then he turned and walked away to his horse.

They stood in silence, watching until he had
mounted and ridden off after the others. Then Gloria turned to look
at Ray, lifting her head to look into his eyes for the first time
since that moment of arrival. She said, with a shaken attempt at a
laugh, “I don’t think I’m ever going to let you out of my sight
again!”

“Well, that’s all right with me,” said Ray,
trying to smile in much the same way.

Gloria moved close to him and put her arms
around him, and Ray put his arm around her shoulders. She could
feel that he was still shaking a little.

“All I kept thinking about was you,” he said
after a minute. “If they’d done it—and you had come out here—”

“Don’t,” murmured Gloria with a shudder, her
arms tightening around him.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then
Gloria looked up at him again. Ray drew a deep breath. He looked
around at the fence, and at the last of the dying sun reflected on
the creek. Gloria felt that somehow, between the beginning of that
long afternoon and its sunset, they had gone on a long, hostile
journey, and only now had finally come back.

“Come on,” said Ray, sounding tired, but for
the first time in a while sounding like he didn’t mind being tired,
“let’s go home.”

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It was pure chance, some might say, that I
was the one to be there that day, or pure Providence, as I prefer
to believe. There’ve been times when I’ve wished it had been
somebody else, but still I don’t think I could have backed out even
if I’d known then what Providence had in mind.

I was out of a job then, drifting on foot
around a part of Oklahoma where they prided themselves on being
civilized at about the turn of the century, but where some pretty
uncivilized things still happened now and again. I’d hitched a ride
that morning from a wagon on the main road, and around noon they
dropped me at a crossroads with wire-fenced hayfields all around
and gave me a pointer for the nearest town. The name of the town
was Clemson, and I remembered it as a place I’d passed through a
couple of times before. There was a railroad there, and I meant to
connect with the morning train and roll on a freight car for a ride
eastwards. Since I had a general idea where the town lay I decided
to take a shortcut through the fields, so I ducked through the wire
fence and started off.