by Jory Sherman
“What is it?” he whispered.
She sat down, curling her legs beneath her, and held out a hand.
“I want to talk to you,” she said.
He rubbed the grains of sleep from his eyes and sat down. She grabbed his hand, and he saw that hers was shaking.
“What’s the matter, Eva? What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s after midnight,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. I had to talk to you before morning.”
“Are you scared? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“I’ve been scared all night, John,” she whispered. “I’m glad you sent Whit far away last night.”
“Why?”
“What he said and did to me on the dance floor.”
“What was that?”
“He warned me to stay away from you. He—said I was his and he would have me. He pinched my bottom and—and he fondled my breast.”
“Are you sure?”
“John, he said he was going to do to me what my pa was going to do.”
“Your pa? What was he going to do?”
“He was trying to rape me. He snuck into my room the night before he left. And he was naked and he—he pulled the covers off me and I could feel him between my legs.”
“Did he . . .?
“I jumped away. He was drunk. I ran outside and hid in the woods until morning. But Whit knew what had happened. He was watching.”
“And your ma?”
“She never mentioned anything, but I think she knew. In her heart of hearts, I think she knew.”
“So, like father, like son,” John said.
Eva nodded.
“You’ve got to keep him away from me, John. Take him back to the creek with you. I don’t want his filthy hands on me.”
“He won’t touch you, Eva. I’ll see to that.”
“You’ve got to, John. I’m scared to death of Whit.”
“I’ll keep him busy at the diggings, but I can’t watch him all the time.”
“I know. But if he gets me alone . . .”
“I understand. Don’t worry. I won’t let that happen to you.”
“You’re a good friend, John. And kind. I want to save myself for . . .”
She didn’t finish, but John’s heart pumped fast and he could feel the blood pound at his temples. Eva was a very desirable young woman, and to think that her brother wanted to deflower her was more than he could bear. He had to make sure that Eva was safe, and if he was any judge of character, that would take some doing.
“You go back to bed,” he said. “Get some sleep. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“I-I won’t. Not with you watching over me.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Hard. He felt a tug of desire and then, suddenly, she released him and was gone, dashing to the cabin, her bare feet flashing in the moonlight. He sat there for a long moment and wondered if he was still asleep, still dreaming. He stood up and walked back to his bedroll.
The clouds were low in the sky, and he knew there would be fog on the creek. There was plenty of work for his men, who would be building a bunkhouse and quarters for him and Ben. The chuck wagon was full of stores, and the men could shoot game for the larder. They were good for a month or more, he reasoned, before he’d have to send a wagon into Denver for supplies.
He walked back to his bedroll and sat down, looking at Ben, who was still snoring softly, his mouth partly open, his hat crumpled up beneath his head. John reached under his blanket and pulled out his pistol and holster, strapped it on. He knew he could not go back to sleep, not with all that was on his mind.
He woke Ben an hour later, while it was still dark.
“Huh? Wha . . . ?”
“Time to get cracking, Ben.”
“Mmm, what for?”
“Got to make some money. At the creek.”
“Aww, John, it ain’t even light yet.”
“We’ll see daybreak from the saddle. Come on.”
John furled his bedroll and tied it in back of his saddle. He was mounted on Gent by the time Ben came stumbling up to Rusher. He could hear Ben grumbling under his breath until he pulled himself aboard his horse.
“Ain’t we even goin’ to say good-bye to the ladies, John?”
John didn’t answer. He had already said good-bye to his lady, if he could call her that, and he didn’t want to stir the entire encampment. They rode through the filmy shrouds of mist and clouds, past bedded-down cattle. They both waved to one of Carlos’s men, who was walking the edge of the plateau. He waved back, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
“We ain’t taking Corny with us?” Ben said.
“No, just Whit.”
“That ain’t a fair exchange.”
“I want you to keep your eye on the kid, Ben.”
“Hell, I ain’t no nursemaid.”
“I’m going to be watching him, too. I don’t want him sneaking back to his ma’s, day or night.”
“Sneaking?”
“Well, he snuck away to go down to the camp of those claim jumpers, didn’t he? I’d call him a sneak.”
“Hell, he ought to be up here helpin’ with the work. We don’t need him.”
“No, we don’t. But neither does Eva.”
“What’s Eva got to do with it?”
John told him.
“Well,” Ben said, “he’s a growin’ boy and I have heard him tuggin’ on his tallywhacker at night. Like any young kid, I s’pose.”
“What he wants to do with his sister is not normal.”
“No, it ain’t. I knowed there was some reason I didn’t like that kid. Too much like his pappy, maybe.”
“Maybe,” John said. “Not a word to Whit. Just keep your eye on him.”
“There you go again, makin’ me into a nursemaid.”
“If he touches his sister again, Ben, I’ll kill him,” John said.
“You keep on, you’ll whittle that Blanchett family down to a nub.”
“I guess you got a right to know, Ben. I’m sweet on Eva.”
“Hell, that’s plain to see. And she takes to you like a duck to water.”
“I can’t see ahead, but I want . . .”
“Want what?”
“Never mind. That’s between me and her.”
“Fine with me. I don’t like to mix in folks’ private lives nohow.”
Whit was still asleep when Ben and John rode up on him. The sky was broken open and filling with a cream light when Ben hopped down and booted the young man awake. Soft, blue-gray clouds streamed across the eastern horizon as the rent opened wider. The clouds on the plateau drifted upward on the morning breeze, and the mists were spindly tendrils along the creeks. They heard the moan of cattle and the distant croon of an owl.
“Shake a leg, kid,” Ben said as Whit sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Where we goin’?” he said, as he looked around, seemingly unsure of where he was. He reached back and rubbed one of his shoulder blades. “I must’ve slept on a rock. My back hurts.”
“It’ll work out once you’re in the saddle,” Ben said.
In moments, Whit was in the saddle, following Ben and John down the trail to the creek. He was still half asleep, and held on to his saddle horn with one hand to keep from falling. He shrugged and twisted his back to get the shoulder blade back to normal.
John was relieved to see that their camp was untouched. But there were fresh boot tracks in the sand. After they all hobbled their horses across the creek, Ben and John walked to the string of pebble-filled tin cans. John examined the ground beyond the warning barrier.
“Two men were here,” he said. “Probably yesterday. One walked to our camp and came back. The tracks lead to their diggings.”
“Sure looks like it,” Ben said.
“I’m going up there and scout them out.”
“By yourself?”
“No use making a parade of it, Ben.”
“You could be in trouble. One man against at least four.�
��
“You keep your eye on Whit. Put him to work on that rocker.”
“I’ll put on my maid’s bonnet and get out the feather duster, Master.”
“You’re funny, Ben. Real funny.”
John slung his Winchester over his shoulder and started walking north along the creek. Ben watched him go until he disappeared.
“Man’s like an Injun,” Ben muttered to himself. “He don’t make no more noise than a damned ant.”
He returned to camp and put Whit to work on the dry rocker, while he himself set up the sluice box and grabbed a shovel.
Two hours later, John returned. Neither Ben nor Whit heard him walk up, and they both jumped when he spoke.
“Ben, I think something’s up with those claim jumpers,” John said. “They packed up and left, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“What?”
“Their claim is clean as a hen’s egg.”
“Ha,” Ben exclaimed. “Their diggin’s petered out and they went back down to Denver or Cherry Creek.”
“No. I followed their tracks for a time. They tried to brush them out, but they didn’t go back to town.”
“Where’d they go?”
Whit had stopped shaking the rocker and was listening to every word.
“Up in the timber, far as I could tell.”
Ben scooted his hat off to one side and scratched his head just above his left ear.
“That don’t make sense, less’n they aim to be hard-rock miners somewheres.”
“Those men aren’t miners or prospectors, Ben. They’re claim jumpers. And probably killers. Like the ones who killed my family and your brother and all our friends.”
“Damn.”
“My guess is that they know about our ranch and they want to drive us off, take our claim and everything we have.”
“John, that’s serious.”
“You’re damned right it’s serious.”
“So, what are you going to do, John? What can we do?”
John drew a deep breath and looked at the flowing waters of the creek, the dancing butterflies that skipped through the air like yellow leaves in fall, the sun glancing off the riffles and sprinkling diamonds in the eddies. He had once seen that same creek red with blood, his mother’s blood, his father’s blood, and his sister’s.
He wasn’t going to let that happen again.
25
JOHN REALIZED THAT ALL HIS DREAMS, THE SERENITY AND CONTENTMENT that were part of this place in the Rocky Mountains, were about to go up in smoke, or be drowned in blood. Those feelings had evaporated when he saw the tracks leading into the timber. Now they were being replaced by a fierce animal inside him, something that was growing claws and fangs and razor-sharp teeth.
“Well, John,” Ben said while John was gazing at the creek, the sky, the white-barked aspens, the green pines, the spruce and fir trees. “Do you know what you’re going to do, what any of us is going to do?”
John’s lungs filled with the cool fresh air of morning, and he looked long and hard at Ben.
“I’m going to get Gent and track those bastards, Ben.”
“And if you find them, then what?”
“I don’t know. I’ll make that decision when the time comes.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. You and Whit stay here. Keep your eyes open. If I’m not back by sunup tomorrow, you ride up to the Blanchett place and warn everybody that there might be trouble.”
“What about me, Mr. Savage?” Whit said.
“If Ben has to leave, you stay here, if it’s safe.”
“I don’t want to be here by myself,” Whit said.
“It’s not a good idea, John. Leavin’ the kid here alone.”
John threw his head back and breathed air through his nostrils.
No, it was not a good idea. The kid probably couldn’t defend himself, and if Thatcher and his bunch came back in force, Whit might be killed. John realized that he was in a quandary. He wanted to keep Whit away from Eva, but he couldn’t just abandon him to the wolves that might come swooping down on their claim at any time.
“I tell you what, Whit. If Ben leaves, you go with him. But you stay away from Eva. If you so much as lay a hand on her, I’ll kill you dead without a second thought.”
“I-I—what do you mean, Mr. Savage?” Whit stammered.
“You know damned well what I mean.”
Whit hung his head and started shaking with rage.
John turned to Ben.
“If he chases his sister around the bed, Ben, you shoot him. Got that?”
“It would be a pleasure, John. Now you know where you stand, kid.”
“I-I-y-you got no right. I ain’t done nothin’ to Eva.”
“What I hate most is a liar,” John said. “Eva’s scared to death of you. She was scared to death of her father. So don’t deny your intentions, boy. Just shut up and keep your nose clean and you won’t die young. Got that?”
“Y-Yes, sir,” Whit said, his eyes misting with tears.
“You got grub in your saddlebags, John,” Ben said. “We ain’t et no breakfast.”
“I got jerky and hardtack, some dried apricots. I’ll get by.”
John started across the creek to get his horse. At the water’s edge, he turned to Ben.
“Cache all our pans and picks before you leave, Ben. Thatcher and his bunch might just come back here.”
“You don’t expect to make it back by mornin’, do you, John?”
“Just be ready for anything, Ben.”
Ben and Whit watched him wade across the creek and disappear into the timber. Moments later, they heard Gent moving through the trees, the horse’s hooves cracking dry branches and its body crashing through brush.
Then it was quiet, with only the swish and gurgle of the creek, the rowdy squawk of blue jays, and the hawking calls of crows.
Ben felt something go out of him, something lighter than a breath, a feeling of loss. And something heavy replaced it, a weighted sorrow, coupled with a wisp of longing. He wanted to be with John, not with this masturbating boy with lust for his sister in his young heart. Ben and John had been through much together, had lost much, tracked down worse men than Thatcher and his bunch, together, side by side, night and day, winter and summer. And now John was gone and he might never see him again.
“Get your ass movin’, kid,” Ben roared. “Make that rocker crackle like thunder, you sonofabitch.”
And Ben’s day went downhill from there.
Whit stayed on the rocker, not even stopping for lunch, and all the time Ben was glaring at him as if he were something poison, something evil.
For Whit, it was the longest day of his life.
26
JOHN FORDED THE CREEK A FEW HUNDRED YARDS NORTH OF WHAT had been Thatcher’s camp. That was the place where the claim jumpers had followed a game trail up into the timber. That was as far as he had tracked them earlier that morning. He gave Gent his head and let him follow the tracks along the narrow trail that traversed the slope at an angle. Soon, the trail twisted off into heavy timber, but the hoofprints angled off at that point.
He found a place where one of the men had cut a spruce branch, and later, he saw where the marks that their horses had made had been brushed away. But he could read that sign, too, and he was not thrown off by the tactic.
The tracks were more than a day old, and most had turned dry. Sometimes, there was only a crushed lump of pine needles to show where the horses had passed. There were no blazes on the trees, so he knew they were not going to return to the creek anytime soon.
He was in unfamiliar country, and after a while, when he had determined the general direction Thatcher was heading, he knew he could no longer follow the tracks so closely. They could be waiting in ambush ahead of him, or they could be camped and he might ride right up on them without knowing it.
He tried to think like Thatcher would think, or any man who wanted to hide in the timber would think. They would find a spo
t for the night, and they would scout other places to camp. They would not stay long in one spot. Chances were that they were still at their first camp and it would be some distance from John’s property on the tabletop. But, sure as he was breathing, they would start scouting out his holdings and try to learn all they could about what he had up on the plateau, how many men there were. In short, they would scout the lay of his land and then make their plans.
Now that John knew the general direction Thatcher was headed, he wondered if Gent might not be a liability from then on. He might smell their horses and whinny or whicker. John couldn’t chance his own horse giving his position away.
Besides, he thought, if he was on foot, he would have a better chance of getting close when he found their camp. Perhaps he could get close enough to listen to what Thatcher and his men were saying.
He rode on for another half mile, found a place just below a thin ridge that was clogged with deadfalls and rocks and brush. There was grass and a large hollowed-out boulder filled with water. He stopped there, stripped Gent of saddle and bridle, hobbled him. He took his canteen and filled his pockets with jerky, hardtack, a bag of dried apricots, and a box of .44s for his rifle and a handful of extra .45s for his pistol. His gunbelt was full of six-gun cartridges. His knife was still sharp, still caked with steer’s blood.
He patted Gent’s neck.
“See you later, boy. You wait for me.”
He had hobbled only Gent’s front feet. If a wolf came after him, Gent could defend himself with kicks from his hind legs.
John munched on a piece of hardtack and a strip of jerky, washed it down with water from his canteen. He climbed the slope at an angle heading northwest. He didn’t expect to find tracks right away, but if he didn’t after a time, as he drew closer to his own property, he would know he was too high and could start looking for Thatcher at a lower elevation.
