Rode Hard, Put Up Wet

by Lola Rebel

  He was just a strange old man. Kept to himself. They could find him in his room, over the general store. He helped out there, too, sometimes, if they wanted to check.

  "I know what this looks like, Deputy. I swear, he presented himself to me as—"

  The Deputy cut him off with a look.

  "We'll go talk to him. If he goes along with your story, then we'll talk some more. It's looking, though, like there's not much story to tell. An old man told you a tall tale. I'm sorry if you're having a cattle rustling problem—but this is a bigger investigation than I'm prepared to take on by myself. I'll need to talk to the Marshall to see if we can spare the manpower."

  "But we'll talk to Avery Beck first?"

  "Yessir."

  The General store wasn't hard to find. Same as everything in Caspar, it was painted in big red letters. GENERAL SUPPLIES.

  They asked the man at the counter, who agreed that yes, Avery Beck lived in the apartment above, and yes, for a law-man it would be fine to go up and see him. Another had just come around asking after him, was this related?

  Deputy Barrett said it was.

  As easy a time as they had found him, though, Glen realized with a sickening twist in his stomach, they would have a hard time getting his story.

  Avery Beck was dead.

  Twenty Two

  The house was empty without Ada. Without Glen. How she had been managing all this time, Catherine couldn't say. The place seemed empty, lifeless. The steers outside were making a racket, but she had long-since learned to ignore it. She went over her accounts again.

  She could afford the next few months, but it was going to be tight now. Before, she had a buffer. A large buffer, even. Even with the expense of the doctor, though, she would make it through. She let that comfort her, as much as it could.

  Doctor Connelly had tried to comfort her, but it didn't help the way that he had seemed to hope it would. A part of her, in the back of her mind, had wondered why he had been acting so strange. It didn't take much imagination to believe that he had heard stories about the way that Billy had been cavorting her around.

  She shook her head. She was being unfair. Not everyone was out to ruin her, not everyone was being disgusting. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. She couldn't keep living her life like this, afraid that one day the facade would collapse. Never able to trust anyone—not even the doctor seeing to her little girl.

  If she couldn't trust him with her reputation, how would she be able to trust him with her daughter's life? With the twins? She shook her head. She had to trust him. Had to.

  She wanted Glen home again. Wanted some reassurance that everything would be alright. He came into her life like a storm, taking over her thoughts and her feelings. At first it had been as uncomfortable as anything.

  Now that he was gone, the absence was more uncomfortably felt than ever, and all she wanted was to have him back. Make up your mind, girl.

  She hardened herself. The twins were going to need supper, and she couldn't afford to keep worrying. The thought of the twins going hungry because she was pitying herself helped. The hardness came back, even though she could feel how thin the margin was.

  She would be able to make it as long as she needed to. Until then, she would do what she had to do, and that was going to have to be good enough for now.

  Glen's legs were sore. It had been a long time since he'd spent this much time on the back of a horse, and time had not been kind to his ability to stay upright without hurting himself.

  Still, there was something comforting about being up on the back again. About being out and doing something.

  Micah hadn't taken a long time trying to figure out how Avery Beck had died. If his landlord was to be believed, then he had been quiet. Kept to himself. He talked a lot about a ranch he had once, on the rare occasion that he was out of his room over the shop.

  No enemies. Nobody would have any reason to hurt him. For that matter, they wouldn't have any reason to see him in his room at all. The last visitor the man had was the Sheriff, and that was the first one in a month. At least, the last one who announced themselves, and the few Avery had were invariably the sort who announced themselves. Not close friends, but people who had to ask where to find the man.

  With the question pressed to him, the clerk at the General Store admitted to having eavesdropped on the conversation, just a bit. Voices were too low to make anything out, but he had looked up the stairs when he heard the sound of boots heading for the door.

  Beck had seen the Sheriff to the door, and then closed the door behind him. As far as that was concerned, the man was alive last time anyone saw him.

  But gunshots were hardly a natural cause—they didn't happen all on their own. Which meant that someone else had come by later that night.

  After all the trouble that he'd had getting someone to look into any of it at all, finding Avery Beck's body had been the first hard proof that had presented itself. A reminder that no matter what he thought, no matter what anyone else said, there was something going on. He wasn't crazy.

  Glen looked off into the horizon, back in the direction of the ranch. It had been a while. Who even knew how many cattle were there, now? The thought of home reminded him that Catherine was there, as well. Was she thinking about him? Worrying what was taking him so long? It had only been a couple of days, but he had thought it would be much less. A day, perhaps two.

  "Go on."

  Glen turned, furrowing his brow. "What's that, Deputy?"

  "I've got to do a little digging. Go on home. I'll come to you."

  "You know where the place is?"

  "No." The man was honest, if nothing else. "But I can find it easy enough."

  "I just bought the place—folks might know it as belonging to Bill Howell. I got the place from him a couple months ago."

  "Great. I'll come by in a day or two. I figure we're going to be making an arrest. Maybe more than one. And I could use the extra hands. That is, if you don't mind. I can always go back into town, but I'm afraid someone would tip off our man."

  "No, I'm fine."

  "Go on home. I'll come calling tomorrow."

  "Sure."

  Glen let out a long breath. Time to relax—that was an unusual luxury. What had he done to earn it? Well, he wasn't going to complain. He spurred the horse on. It wasn't too far to get home. An hour, perhaps less. Getting some sleep would be fine, even if it were in the barn.

  Getting some sleep in a bed, though…

  He pushed the thought away. It hadn't meant anything. Catherine didn't have any interest in picking up where they'd left off in Caspar.

  Catherine didn't see Glen coming until his horse was passing the window heading into the stables. He took his sweet time in there, too, which only made her crazier. The man had no sense of timing.

  Nothing had been happening around the house, and that only made things worse. The twins were already down, and the nothing that was happening around the house meant that far, far too much was going on in her head. Catherine wanted nothing more than to be able to sit down and have a chat with him.

  An image flashed through her head, turning her cheeks a crimson red. No, she chastised herself. Not that sort of chat, not that sort of chat at all. Just something to pass the time. Something to remind her that she wasn't the only person struggling with things lately.

  Glen had left her with the promise to bring back a Marshall. That he wasn't being followed right now meant he had either failed, or the man was out on business. That he'd let Glen go home, but cogs were turning behind the scenes. She hoped it was the latter.

  A knock at the door. She opened it, already knowing who she would find. Glen gave her a tired smile. Lord, she thought. The man looked good no matter what he was doing.

  "How was your trip?"

  "Not great." The smile faded. "Avery Beck is dead, and we have no witness to anything. And to make matters worse…"

  He stopped himself. What could be worse than that?


  "What is it?"

  "I saw your husband."

  Twenty Three

  Glen laid his head back and let out a breath. He hadn't expected her to take the suggestion that her husband was in town well, but he hadn't expected her to take it as poorly as she had, either. Well, it didn't much matter.

  She had every right to react however she wanted to. She didn't seem to want to talk about him, and when she did, she talked about him like something unpleasant that had happened to her, rather than like a husband and lover.

  It was her business what had happened, but that didn't stop Glen from worrying about it, and it didn't help him worrying. He tapped the back of his hat, sending it sliding down his face, covering his eyes.

  He shut them and tried not to wonder what had happened between them that had hurt her so bad. He got the sick feeling that if he found out, he would like Bill Howell less than he already did, and considering the unpleasant feelings Glen already had towards the man…

  Sleep didn't come easy, though. Not after all that had happened. Too many thoughts running through his head, too many doubts raised. So instead he hung down from the loft, lowered himself lightly, and pushed his back into the hay-bale again. He set his hat aside.

  He'd either fall asleep, or he'd watch the cattle, but one way or another, Glen was going to get something done.

  The knock at the door didn't surprise her any more. Glen was home again, finally. The Deputy Marshall was looking into the rustling, and things were moving. Everything couldn't have gone better if she'd planned it herself.

  She didn't answer right away, of course. She ducked into her room, pulled out her looking glass. She had to be looking as good as she possibly could for when Glen saw her.

  Catherine had never worried too much about how she looked. After everything that had happened—what did it matter any more? She was who she was, and everyone knew that. She did what she had to do, but it wasn't worth worrying herself over.

  But with Glen around, things seemed… different. As if his very presence meant that she needed to be something better than she was. The way he looked at her, she thought, it must have been working.

  Convinced that she was looking good, she started back toward the door. A second knock came.

  "Hold your horses, I'm a-comin'."

  But when she answered the door, Glen wasn't there. A thin man, curly brown hair, with a thin nose like a knife. He wore a brown leather coat that was too hot for the summer heat, and a pin on his chest with the words 'Deputy Marshal' on it.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm lookin' for a Mister Glen Riley? I was told this was his place."

  "Is that what they told you?"

  "In a fashion, yes. I heard this was where Bill Howell's ranch was, and Mister Riley told me that's where I can find him. Are you—Missus Riley perhaps?"

  Catherine Blushed. "No, nothing like that. Billy's my—used to be my husband. There was some confusion over ownership, but we're working it out. Mister Riley"—she stressed his name harder than she should have—"is more'n likely out in the barn. That's where he's been staying."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  She could see a strange look in his eyes, one that said he knew more than she wanted him to. If he'd been in town, and he had heard anything about her, then he would have heard the talk.

  He put his hat back on his head and walked off to find Glen, but she couldn't help but watch him go. He knew, sure as anything, what she had done. That wasn't how she wanted it, not one bit.

  But it wasn't her choice now, not any more. Billy had already branded her, and now if she wasn't lucky, everyone would know sooner or later. She just had to hope that in Glen's case, it was later. Much later.

  Glen saw the Deputy coming a ways off, but he didn't want to deal with the hassle. His head still hurt on account of not being able to sleep. As he pushed himself up and brushed away the straw from his coat, he could still feel the buzz of pain in his mind. He shook it away. He didn't have time for it. Instead he forced a grin onto his face and went out to meet the man.

  "What's the word, Deputy?"

  Deputy Barrett didn't return the smile. The rudeness wasn't the only thing that bothered Glen about it. It didn't tell a good story.

  "I thought I would see if the change in situation would affect the Sheriff's opinion. He doubled down on you and your lady friend having manufactured the whole situation."

  Glen heard the insinuation and decided not to comment on it. There would be time to make sure that the man understood their position perfectly well later.

  "So what, then?"

  "So we can't count on his help."

  "Is that it?"

  "Not exactly. Can I get a head count on your cattle? Do you perhaps have a bill of sale to confirm how many you should have had?"

  Glen did the head count. What had been fifty-three, then fifty dead even, now there were forty-six. At this rate, he wouldn't have a herd left by the end of the summer, wherever they were taking them to.

  The deputy seemed to be sympathetic, but there wasn't a whole lot the man could do to change the past, and Glen wasn't about to ask him to try it.

  "Now that's done—let's go talk to Mr. Dawson, shall we?"

  Glen liked the sound of that.

  Catherine watched them go and tried not to let the bad feeling in her stomach get to her. The way they rode off together, Glen looked as comfortable as she had ever seen him.

  He looked a hundred times more comfortable riding off to make sure the Deputy Marshal didn't get shot than he ever had riding off with the cattle. As if doing it was what he naturally wanted to do.

  They were going off to the Dawson brewery, she thought. They would be back tonight, no problem. Even if there was a problem, Glen wasn't going to be in the middle of it. He was just hired on to help do the job.

  There wasn't any reason to kill him. So there was no reason to be worried about him.

  The reasoning didn't help to calm her nerves. As she watched him ride off, Catherine couldn't help feeling that something was fundamentally changing. Something she wasn't going to like.

  She wanted a horse, to follow them from a ways behind to make sure they would be alright, and she wished he had taken the Spencer from over the mantelpiece. Anything that would supplement that pistol of his. Regardless of how natural it looked on him.

  She let out the breath she had been holding. There was no use in watching him go. He would be back tonight. She repeated it again to herself. Only in a few hours. Back by tonight. She liked the sound of it.

  Now if only she believed it.

  Twenty Four

  Glen had a bad feeling. They didn't have enough men. That was the worst part. Knowing that they should have had at least two more.

  One should wait outside with a rifle, make sure that nobody came up behind and cover their exit. The other… well, Glen didn't see Rod Dawson going quietly in any case. Not with this many men hanging around. Three inside was the minimum. More would have meant that they might all be going home.

  Two men felt like a joke. They would be lucky to make it out of the place with their lives, never mind with Dawson in tow. He said so to Deputy Barrett.

  "The way I figure it, if we take the time to get backup, they might just remove any evidence. Your Sheriff probably already warned him that you're onto his trail—can we afford the time?"

  Glen thought they could, but he wasn't in charge, and both of them knew it. He was there for muscle and to provide support. An extra gun. He didn't have a rifle in the first place, either, so the more comfortable position wouldn't be possible.

  He turned the cylinder to check that the Colt was loaded, then thought better of it and thumbed a cartridge into the last space. Six shots would do him better than the assurance of the empty cylinder right now.

  The Deputy turned to him. "You ready?"

  Glen nodded. He didn't like this, but that didn't mean he was a coward, and it damn sure didn't mean that it was going to ch
ange anything if he waited.

  They got back onto their horses and started in, nice and slow. No hurry. If they were lucky, they would walk out with the man. Lucky being the operative word—Glen would nearly take it as proof that the man was innocent if they made it out alright.

  The Deputy knocked. Glen stayed a few steps behind, keeping an eye on the men who were sitting by the side, smoking thick cigars. They shut up as soon as the two men came into earshot, but pretended not to notice them.

  Well, either way. He wasn't going to get riled up over just that. Still, his fingers flexed on the butt of his gun. This wasn't going to end well, he knew. Not at all well.

  The door opened on a broad-shouldered man wearing a heavy apron.

  "I'm with the United States Marshal Service, and I'm here to serve an arrest warrant for one Rodney Dawson. I believe he owns this brewery, is that right?"

  The man raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, Rod runs this place, sure. He ain't here."

  "That's very disappointing to hear, sir. Do you know where I might be able to find him?"

  "No."

  The man was lying, and he wasn't doing much to hide it. Even the straight face he was keeping was less because he thought that he needed it, and more because he didn't seem to particularly care what they thought, so long as they left.

  "You don't mind if we come in? I've got a warrant, you see."

  "Let me see it."

  The Deputy pulled a bill out of his pocket and handed it over. The man took it and glanced down. Then he handed it back and shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

  Barrett tipped his head to signal Glen to follow. There were more inside. Maybe twenty of them in total. Too many for a brewery, but more than that, too many for them to take in a fight. They should have had four. Shouldn't have come in with just the two of them.

  The damage was already done.