Rebekah had put Timmy and Mary down for their naps and opened a window to let in the rain-washed breeze. Hearing his knock, she ran to the door and opened it. “Why, hello, Jim. Come on in. Sky should be back in a minute.”
“Hello, Rebekah. Actually, it was you I’ve come to see.” He took off his rain-soaked hat and coat and went to stand in front of the fireplace, making small talk. “Sure was a toad-strangler of a rain, wasn’t she now?”
“Yes,” Rebekah agreed, then paused. “Did you say you wanted to tell me something?”
O’Malley took a deep breath, brought his hands out and lifted them in a plaintive gesture. “Becky, I know how unhappy you are. It ain’t no secret—everybody who knows you talks about it.” He lifted his hand as she tried to speak. “Wait now, let me have my say—then you can answer me.”
“Becky, you wasn’t meant to be a servant. You’re a healthy young woman, pretty enough for any man—and straight enough to do them proud. Sky done wrong to bring you here—and you done wrong to agree to it.”
“I needed a home for my children,” Rebekah whispered. His charge had stirred her guilt, for she had been telling herself for days the same thing O’Malley said. She had been wrong to marry Sky!
“That ain’t good enough, Becky, and I think you know it.”
Just then Sky returned from the barn, repaired bench in hand, and overheard O’Malley’s next words through the open window.
“I’ve got my own mill now, and can take care of you and the kids. This mountain man is ready to settle down.” He paused and took her hand. “Becky, I want you to marry me.”
Outside, Sky could barely contain himself, but somehow he managed to hold himself in check long enough to hear her answer. Inside, Rebekah withdrew her hand and stammered in confusion. “B-but, Jim! I am married!”
“I’ve been talking to the judge and to a lawyer,” O’Malley said evenly, his eyes steady on hers. “They say that since your marriage ain’t never been a real marriage—ain’t never been what they call consummated—why, you won’t even have to have a divorce. It can be annulled. Be just like it never took place.”
With a roar, Winslow crashed open the door, took two steps forward, grasped O’Malley’s arm, and threw him toward the door. Jim, who had not expected the attack, nearly fell down, but caught himself in time. “I ought to shoot you!” Sky bellowed. “What kind of a man are you, O’Malley? Coming into my house and talking like that to my wife!”
“Sky,” Jim said, his huge shoulders tense as he faced the smaller man, “Becky ain’t your wife!” He raised his voice and asked, “Can you tell me you’ve been a husband to her?”
“That’s none of your affair!”
“Sky, if you loved her—if you was a real husband to her—I’d kill any man that tried to come between you two. But this is different.” He turned to Rebekah, who looked as white as a sheet and had backed up against the wall closest to the bedroom. “Rebekah, I’m telling you that I’ll make a good home for you and your kids. I’ve never seen a woman I admired more than you—and if you’ll marry me, I’ve got my mind set to be a real husband. Don’t aim to brag, but most men who know me would tell you that when I set out to do a thing, it gets done! I’ll love you and take care of you—and you’ll be more than just a servant—”
His words were cut off by Sky’s fist. The blow caught him in the mouth, driving him backward. He bounced off the wall and raised his hands to catch Sky, who attacked him with a fury Rebekah had not seen since the days of the wagon train when Sky had confronted Tom Lake. She knew the man was capable of this kind of battle, but had never actually seen him fight. She stood by helplessly as Sky rocked O’Malley’s head with a series of blows so rapidly that he could not defend himself at first. Then with a muffled roar, he shoved Sky backward, shouting, “Wait a minute—!”
But Winslow was in a red battle rage and came roaring back, striking Jim in the stomach with a terrific blow that brought a gust from the big man’s lips and drove him to a sitting position. Winslow dove at him, and in an instant the two were rolling across the floor, locked in a fierce embrace. At first O’Malley tried simply pinning Sky’s arms to stop the fuselage of blows that rained on his face, but failed, so he threw one arm around Winslow’s neck. Holding him there, O’Malley struck him in the temple.
The blow sent red spots to Sky’s eyes, but it had no other effect on him except to enrage him further. With a mighty wrench, he tore free from O’Malley’s grip and tried to get to his feet, but Jim caught him in the chest with a numbing right hand, and he fell over backward. Instantly O’Malley was on him; it was like being grabbed by a grizzly, and only when Sky landed a series of blows against O’Malley’s throat did the grip loosen enough for Winslow to slip free.
Both men were now totally unaware of Rebekah, who was crying out for them to stop as the furniture was splintered by their violent thrashing. O’Malley was easily the stronger of the two, but Winslow’s slashing blows were like lightning, and both men’s faces were marked and bloody as they careened into the wall and fell to the floor, striking and kicking wildly.
Rebekah tried to pull them apart, but she was like a feather in a whirlwind until her eyes fell on a bucket filled with the dirty water she’d used for scrubbing the floor. She ran and picked it up, then carefully brought it to where the two men were rolling on the floor. Sky was on top, but as she approached, Jim threw him to one side, so that for one moment they lay side by side. She dumped the contents of the bucket right in their faces.
Immediately both men fell away from each other, sputtering and coughing, for the dirty water had caught them with their mouths open. Sky struggled to his feet, and O’Malley rolled over on his face, gagging horribly.
“Get out of here!” Rebekah cried. Sky coughed and wiped his eyes, which were burning from the lye soap. To his amazement, he saw that she was weeping. “I hate you both! I won’t be fought for like—like . . . !” She whirled and ran to the wall. Pulling down the rifle, she pointed it wildly in their direction.
Jim had struggled to his feet by that time and now found himself looking down the barrel of the weapon. “Now, hold on, Becky—!”
“Get out! Get out!” she shrieked.
Sky lurched backward, yelling, “Rebekah—you’re going to kill somebody with that thing!”
“I wish it had two barrels so I could shoot you both!” She pulled the hammer back, and both men backed out the door as fast as they could go. “If you’re going to act like dogs—I’ll treat you like dogs!” she shouted after them.
Once they were outside the door, she hurled Jim’s hat and coat out after them, slamming the door with all her might. She dropped the gun, which went off, sending the ball through the window and bringing a yell from O’Malley.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Sky yelled at O’Malley.
“I ain’t sorry, not a bit, Sky,” he retorted, glaring angrily. Blood streamed down his face from a cut eyebrow. “She’s going to have to get away from you sooner or later—and I don’t aim to let her be without a place to go.”
Winslow glared back at the other man, his own face beginning to ache from the pounding it had taken. Whipping out his handkerchief, he wiped the blood from his mouth. His hand, he noticed, was trembling; he held it out and studied it. “Look at that! A Crow war party couldn’t have made me shake like that! And you’ve done it with your foolishness.”
“It wasn’t my foolishness.” O’Malley took a deep breath, and the anger was replaced with sadness. “You were wrong to make a slave out of that girl. You’re wrong to try to keep her from having a real home. You’re just downright wrong.”
Sky had heard enough. “Get out of here, Jim.”
“I’m going,” O’Malley said quietly. “But this ain’t over. Becky’s heard the truth, Sky, and she ain’t gonna go on being no servant.” He tugged at an ear thoughtfully. “Sky, whatever in this blue-eyed world made you even think you could use a fine young woman like you been doing? I always thought y
ou had a headful of sense . . .” He retrieved his hat and coat, then turned and said quietly as he left, “But I don’t think so no more!”
As O’Malley rode out of the yard, Sky drew a bucket of water from the well and, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, began to wash the blood from his face. His knuckles were raw and it hurt to breathe. O’Malley’s blows had been devastating, and now the pain began to come in waves. He made a fist, grimaced at the raw knuckles, then moved back to the house. The door, he discovered, was bolted, and he walked to the edge of the porch and slumped down.
He was still there an hour later when Joe came back from hunting.
“Pa! What happened?”
Sky looked up with one eye closed and the other one half shut. He was trying to think of a way to tell Joe about the fight when the door behind him opened. He turned to see Rebekah come outside wearing her heavy coat. Her hazel eyes were cold as she announced, “I’m going to town. Joe, will you hitch up the light wagon for me?”
Joe stared at her, then at Sky’s battered face. “What’s the matter, Ma?”
“I’m taking Timmy and Mary and going to town, Joe.”
His mouth fell open. “You mean—for good?”
Rebekah saw the stricken look on his face and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Joe. It’s a shame I have to leave just when you and I have learned to like each other. But your father and I have decided that we can’t live together.”
Sky started to argue, but the look on her face stopped him. He clamped his lips together. “I’ll get the wagon.”
While Sky hitched up the team, Rebekah tried to make Joe understand, well knowing that it was an impossible task. “But, Ma, you can’t go away now!” he wailed. “You’re married to Pa!”
“It just didn’t work out, Joe. Grown-ups do stupid things sometimes—and our getting married was one of them.”
“But—what’ll you do?”
“Don’t worry about me, Joe,” she said, managing a weak smile. “I’ll be all right. And remember this—I’ll always love you, no matter what!”
Sky drove the team up and got down. “I guess you’ll want your things.”
“Yes.”
The three of them moved to the house. When the wagon was loaded Rebekah went in and came out with Mary in her arms. “Will you please get Timmy for me?” she asked Sky quietly.
Sky went inside, picked up the boy and put his coat on. Timmy laughed, thinking it was a game. The sound brought a lump to Winslow’s throat, and it went down hard when he handed the boy to his mother.
“I know you don’t want me along,” he said evenly. Turning to his son, he added, “Joe, drive them to town. But wait . . .” Going into the house, he came back out with a pouch of coins and handed it to Rebekah. “This is for your hotel. Joe, you stay in town with Sam and Edith tonight. Now, I want a word with Rebekah. Go get your heavy coat.”
As soon as Joe left, he said, “You don’t have to go, Rebekah. I know you won’t believe this—”
“Sky,” she interrupted, “it’s over. It’s my fault as much as yours—or maybe more.” Her voice was low and weary. “I know it was just a bargain—but I dreamed that we’d find more than that.” Her voice was intense, her eyes angry. “But you’ll never love anyone again, will you, Sky—?”
“Rebekah . . . !”
“You’re too filled with bitterness and hatred for Irene,” Rebekah went on relentlessly. “You’re bound by a dead woman, Sky. She’s been in her grave for years—but you’ll go to your grave hating her.”
Joe came out and, glancing at them both nervously, got in the wagon. “Don’t come after me,” Rebekah warned, climbing in as well. “There’s nothing left for us. Drive on, Joe!”
Sky Winslow stood there, helplessly watching the wagon until it disappeared around the bend of the road, his eyes vacant and his mouth tense. His shoulders slumped, and he sat down hard on the steps of the porch and stared at the ground. He had been in tight spots many times, but now there was an emptiness inside that sickened him. He was beginning to get cold outside, and he was still wet from the soaking, so he got up and started into the house, then stopped. Thinking with dread of the silent rooms inside, he turned and walked rapidly away into the woods, his head down, his shoulders stooped over like an old man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SHOOTOUT AT THE SILVER MOON
Joe returned the following day at noon. Sky helped him unhitch the team, waiting until they got inside the house to ask, “They get in the hotel all right?”
Joe shook his head, and there was an air of stubbornness in the set of his shoulders as he answered, “No. Sam and Edith took ’em in.” For the next three days, Joe talked to Sky only when he was forced to, and then only with monosyllables. He did his work, but went off into the woods hunting every afternoon. At night after supper, he would climb to the loft, leaving Sky alone.
Once Sky tried to explain the thing, but even as he spoke, he saw Joe’s eyes harden. Can’t blame him much, he thought sourly. I don’t admire myself—so why should I expect Joe to understand?
The house went to seed quickly without Rebekah’s touch, and after the good food that she had served, neither of them had much appetite for the hasty meals they put together. Sky encouraged Joe to keep on with his studies—but that was a failure as well. Worst of all was the wall that Rebekah’s leaving had created between him and his son. Got to get away from here, he told himself. He’ll never get over his feelings as long as we stay here.
By the third day he had made up his mind to sell out—as he had once intended—and go north. He had it in his mind to tell Joe at noon that they’d be leaving, but while they were eating, they heard a wagon approach. Getting up and looking out the window, Joe said, “It’s Edith and Miss Karen.”
Thinking they’d come on some sort of mercy mission, Sky frowned and got to his feet as the women came in, prepared to cut the visit short. One look at Edith’s pale and swollen face, however, and he realized that there was another, more terrible reason for their visit. “What’s wrong?” he asked urgently.
Edith spoke in a tightly controlled voice. “It’s Tom Lake. He’s dead.”
Shocked, Sky stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “Sit down, Edith.”
“No, I’ve got to get back to Sam.”
“What happened?”
Though Edith’s voice was even, he saw that she was near the end of her endurance. “The election was yesterday. Sam won somehow. Nobody expected it, but the farmers and church folks worked night and day, and Sam and Tom won.” She paused, and her voice grew hard. “I was afraid, because I knew that Poole and Ingerson wouldn’t let it go at that—and they didn’t!”
“Who shot him, Edith?” Sky asked quietly. He thought of the gentle man who had been such a friend to him, and knew he could not let it go, either. The anger that filled him was not a blind rage, but a calculated and icy feeling; he swore to himself that as long as he could walk he’d go after the men responsible.
“Oh, it wasn’t Poole or Ingerson,” Edith replied wearily. “They’re too clever for that. It was one of the new men they’ve been hiring—name’s Roy Hart.”
“Heard of him,” Sky said. “Got a reputation in Seattle as a gunman.”
“He came up to Tom in the street this morning and there was an argument. He claims Tom drew on him, but that’s a lie! Can you imagine Tom Lake using a gun on anybody?”
“No, I can’t.” He thought for a long moment. “I reckon Sam’s got the idea he’ll have to arrest this Hart?”
Edith nodded, unable to speak, and Karen spoke up nervously, “He’s made Dave sheriff, and the two of them are going to go arrest the man.”
“Just what Poole and Ingerson would like them to do,” Sky murmured softly.
“I’ve tried to talk Sam out of it,” Edith said desperately, “but he’s got this thing about honor. Says he’s got to do it for the good of the town.”
“Dave is the same way, Sky,” Karen nodded. “They
’ve tried to get support from the townsfolk, but everybody is scared. They’re afraid to face that gunman—and now Ingerson’s hired some more men besides Hart—all of them practically criminals!”
“When are they going to make this arrest?”
“They were trying to get some help when we left, Sky. I got Sam to promise me he’d wait until I got back. Sky, he’s going to get killed if you don’t do something!”
Karen and Edith were both looking at him with a desperate intensity, and Joe put their thoughts into words. “Pa, you’re not gonna let Sam fight them all alone, are you?”
Sky turned and met Joe’s gaze. “I’ll have to go in and lend a hand, Joe. But I don’t want you anywhere near when we go to arrest them.”
“Sky!” Edith breathed, and a faint color came into her face, “I came to ask you to help—but it’s a lot to ask.”
Sky shrugged. “Sam Birdwell’s been a good friend, Edith.” He looked at Karen and said with feeling, “And Dave, too.” Then his face darkened with sobering thoughts. “You take care of Joe,” he told the two women. “I’m going to ride in quick as I can.”
“Pa, let me go with you!”
Sky looked down at Joe thoughtfully. “All right, Son—but you’ll have to stay clear of the action. Go saddle your horse.”
“We’ll start back now,” Edith said, and turned to go, but he stopped her with a word.
“Got one thing you can help me with.” He went to the cluttered desk, found a sheet of paper and scribbled a few lines. Holding it up, he said, “Like to have both of you witness this.”
Edith came closer and looked at the paper, then up at Sky with a startled expression. “Why, it’s a will!”
“Never know about a thing like this,” Sky commented. “It leaves this place and everything I’ve got to Rebekah. Guess she’d get it anyway, but sign this and I’ll give it to Clay Hill.”
“All right, Sky,” Edith replied, and the two women signed the paper. As Sky put it in his pocket, Edith warned, “Be careful, Sky, and—God be with you!”
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 29
