He shook his head, and regret tinged the edges of his tone. “Wish I could take the pain from you, Hope.”
It was the most personal thing he’d ever said to her, and she thought for a moment, then asked, “Why would you want to do that, Dan?”
The question seemed to embarrass him, and he looked down at the ground for a moment, as though seeking for an answer there. Then he lifted his gaze and said quietly, “Just don’t like to see you hurting.”
The simplicity of his answer moved her, for she had never known such concern from men, except from her father. Wonder came into her eyes, but at the same time, the caution that she’d let control her grew stronger. She shook her head quickly, saying, “I guess we all have to hurt for ourselves, don’t we?” She stooped down, washed the mud from her hand, then drew a handkerchief from her pocket and wound it around the wounded hand.
There had been a moment of sweetness as she had leaned against him, bringing a longing up from the depths of her spirit, which she had thought long-buried. She was a woman capable of great love, and one who longed for love as well. But her experience with two abusive men had forced those feelings into a dark closet someplace in her mind and heart, and it would take more than the spine of a catfish to bring them out.
Turning from him abruptly, she said, “Take that fish off for me, will you, Dan?” And as he moved to do so, she knew she had closed the door on something tender and fine in the moment.
****
Ash Caudill was a cautious man by nature—a trait that had kept him alive when others he had ridden with were dead. So when he came to a conclusion about Dan Winslow, he said nothing to Silas Head, to anyone else. For weeks he had been seething under the opinion of some that he had been bested by Winslow, and in his younger days he would have simply killed Winslow or had him killed.
The worst of it for Caudill had been the taunts of Diane Head, who had missed few opportunities to put a verbal barb into Arrow’s foreman. The hands knew better than to ridicule him, and Silas Head had merely warned him gruffly, “Ash, it’s you or Winslow. Valley’s too small for both of you.”
Now as Caudill eased his horse through the thick timber that surrounded the Littleton ranch, he was able to smile for the first time. He spoke aloud, his voice causing the gelding’s ears to prick backward. “Reckon I’ve waited long enough to let Winslow settle down. Now we’ll see what happens.” Soon he rode up into the clearing where the ranch house sat, and called out, “Littleton! Hello the house!”
“Who’s there? Stand fast!”
Ash spoke up at once to the challenge. “Charlie? It’s me—Ash Caudill.”
He waited quietly, and finally a reluctant voice muttered, “Ride in, Caudill.” Ash touched his horse’s flanks, rode up to the house, and stopped to look down at four men who had emerged from the cabin.
“Little late for a social call,” Ash said. “But maybe you can offer me a cup of coffee.”
Charlie Littleton studied Caudill carefully, his green eyes flickering over the trail. Seeing no one, he nodded. “Get down. Beans in the pot.”
Ash walked inside the cabin, feeling somewhat tense. But he was a man of cool nerve, and sat down in the chair Charlie Littleton indicated. The table was set, and Charlie said, “Moon, give the man something to eat.”
They all sat down, and a short, round-faced puncher pulled a steak out of the skillet, added a baked potato, and put it in front of Caudill. Ash cut a bit off with the knife provided, ate it thoughtfully, then said, “That’s a good piece of beef.” Then he grinned and added, “Not your beef, I’d guess, Charlie.”
Charlie Littleton returned the grin. “Never was a man to disregard the custom of the country.”
He began to eat, and the meal was quickly over. Ash spoke lightly of conditions on the range and in the market, adding that he’d been out looking for strays and thought he’d drop in. None of the men at the table believed that, nor did Caudill expect them to. When he was finished with the meal, he said, “Charlie, I been thinking about that gray mare you tried to sell me a few months back. She still for sale?”
“Sure. Price ain’t gone down though.”
“Mind if I take a look at her?”
Charlie rose and winked at the others. “You boys get ready for a bonus. When a man comes to me to buy a horse, I know I can do him.”
The two men walked out of the cabin and strolled to a corral a hundred yards east of the house. When they got there, Littleton stopped and turned a hard glance on the other. “What’s on your mind, Ash?”
“How many cattle you rustled from Arrow, Charlie?”
The blunt question caught Littleton off guard, but only for a moment. “You ain’t never caught me rustlin’, Caudill.”
“I’d hang you if I did. You’re a crook, but that’s all right with me. I aim to see you do your rustlin’ from some outfit besides Arrow—most of it, anyway. But I got a proposition for you, Charlie.”
“Like to hear about it,” Littleton said promptly. “Always looking for a way to go up in the world. What’s on your mind?”
“Dan Winslow.”
Littleton took that in, studied the face of Caudill, then nodded. “Yeah, I know. He’s a burr under your saddle, ain’t he, Ash?”
“He’s getting in my way. I want him taken out.”
“Why don’t you do the job yourself? He’s just one man.”
Ash’s lips tightened, but he was honest. “I could take him one-on-one . . . but it would be a close thing. Why risk it when there are other ways?”
Littleton squinted his eyes, then asked bluntly, “What’s it worth to you, Ash?”
“The widow Malloy’s got a nice herd—and there must be over one hundred head of prime stock at Winslow’s place. You shouldn’t have any trouble moving them when you’ve put Winslow out of the way. And to sweeten the pot, I’ll add fifty head.”
“Of old man Head’s cattle?” Littleton grinned. “Make it a hundred and you got a bargain.”
“Good enough,” Caudill nodded. “Now, it’s got to be done right. Don’t try to face him, Charlie. Somehow you’ve got to lure him away by himself and take a potshot at him.” Now that the deal was made, Caudill was anxious to leave. He walked back to his horse, mounted, and said only, “I’ll be waiting to hear something.”
After he left, Littleton entered the cabin. “What did he want, Charlie?” Dion grunted.
“Just a business deal, Dion. Tell you about it when I’ve thought on it some.”
****
Any sort of gathering was an enticement to the small ranchers and settlers, and a cabin raising was as much a social gathering as it was a utilitarian affair. Young Dale Browning and Carolyn Stone, therefore, found the future spot of their cabin filled up with people early one crisp October morning. As the pastor of the church, it was necessary for Amos to be at the affair, and he arrived with his family at the clearing in time for Winslow, Sid, and Smoky to help with the work.
There were over a hundred people congregated, some of them coming from as far away as thirty miles, and there was a holiday air about the gathering. Saddle horses and wagons were led to a nearby meadow, and men were soon notching and setting up the log walls of the cabin, while others with wedges and froes were riving out the cedar shakes to be used on the roof. One crew worked on the windows, arguing vociferously concerning slanting the frames for better protection against Indian attack. Another crew worked on the fireplace, which was a tricky affair. The man in charge of this task, Lowell Cox, spoke with authority. “You got no draw,” he stated firmly, “and you got no cabin.” He looked down at the clay gathered to set the stone and shook his head. “Wished I had some animal blood to mix with this clay.”
The young couple themselves had little authority in the matter. Young Browning requested that the cabin face the creek, but he was overruled by several older heads who informed him that every cabin should face northeast.
The women worked on the food, the sound of their laughter and talk risin
g above the sounds of hammer and saw. Hope helped set the food out as the cabin grew near to a finish, each lady bringing her own favorite dishes—pickled peaches, huckleberry pie, blackberry pie, cider, fresh butter molded in pretty patterns, homemade cheese, summer sausage, Indian relish, cucumbers in cream and vinegar, and jellies, jams, and fruit butters.
Finally a fire was lighted, and they all crowded in to see if the chimney drew. A hearty cheer went up when it did. The bed was made, a rug was laid down, and a lamp placed on the table beside a Bible opened to the Psalms.
“Now,” Amos said with a wide smile, “let’s have the wedding.” He stood bareheaded in the open yard and married the pair. Then he put his Bible away, and people gathered around to kiss the bride and wring the groom’s hand.
Hope helped serve the food, then clean up the dishes. Finally the sound of a fiddle rose, and Mrs. Miller, a pretty red-haired woman of thirty-two, said, “Now’s the time for frolic, Hope.”
The fiddler was joined by two guitarists and one banjo player, and soon men and women were moving over the grass in a lively fashion. Dave Orr came and stood before her, tall and better dressed than his neighbors, saying, “Let me have this dance, Mrs. Malloy.”
“Oh, I don’t dance!”
Orr smiled and insisted. “Come now, I know you must.” He led her to the circle, and soon Hope found herself enjoying the music. Dave Orr was a fine dancer, and so was Smoky Jacks, who claimed her next. The dance went on for two hours, but Hope withdrew after only a short time. She went over to sit down, watching the others. Cody was playing with several boys his age, and Zane was leaning against a tree.
Rosa had been chosen at once, and now she was laughing as Sid Kincaid spun her around. Hope rose and went to stand beside her brother, asking, “Are you too sore to dance, Zane?”
He turned toward her, and she saw the unhappiness in his eyes. “I don’t want to dance.”
“Why, you do so!” Hope said and pulled him to the edge of the grass. “Now, let’s show these people how Arkansas people can dance!”
Zane moved somewhat awkwardly, but when the dance was over, Rosa came to him at once, saying, “Why, Zane Jenson! I’m put out with you. Now, you dance with me or I’ll poke you in the ribs.” Hope returned to her seat, noting that Zane was smiling.
“Would you take a chance on me, Hope?”
When Hope looked up, she saw Winslow waiting, a smile on his tanned face. He added, “I can’t guarantee anything. Might step on your feet.”
Hope wanted to refuse, for she was still not willing to trust herself to this man. But there was no way she could do that, so she rose and they began to dance. She said after a moment, “You’ve had lots of practice at this.”
“A long time ago,” he admitted. They moved gracefully around the grass, and he was aware of her slim beauty.
When the dance was over, she said, “Dan, I want to talk to you.” She walked away, and he followed her to the edge of the circle, then out to the meadow where the horses and wagons were tied. There was a glow in the west where the sun was sinking below the line of hills, and her smooth cheeks picked up a rosy tint as she turned to face him.
“Dan, I think you should go back to your own ranch,” she said, speaking quickly as if it were a speech she had practiced. “Zane is better now, and we have Smoky to help. I don’t want to impose on you, though I don’t know how we’d have gotten along without you.”
Winslow said quietly, “What’s your real reason for wanting me to leave, Hope?”
“Why—that is my real reason!”
“First dishonest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Winslow answered almost roughly. “What you mean is, you’re afraid of me.”
Hope gasped, and her lips grew firm. “I am not!” she exclaimed. “What makes you say a thing like that?”
He gave her a long look, then said, “You’re afraid of men. That’s why you want me to leave.”
Hope’s face burned, and she turned to leave. But he grabbed her and was about to say something when a movement caught his eye. A man he’d never seen before had appeared and was walking straight toward them. When he drew close, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “For you, Winslow,” he said, then turned and walked away. Dan watched him with curious eyes as he mounted a horse, then rode away.
He looked at the note, then his eyes went back to the horseman. “Know who he is?” Dan asked.
“No. I’ve never seen him before.” She was still angry, but the interruption had given her a chance to regain her composure. “Dan, let’s not quarrel. I’ve had—bad luck with marriage. That’s all it is. Don’t be angry with me.”
“No,” he said gently. “I just hate to see you missing out on things.”
“I’ve got a son to raise,” she said quickly, her tone defensive. “And Pa isn’t well.”
He shook his head, but knew that arguing would not break down the wall she had built around herself. “You’ll have to face up to it someday, Hope. And I wish the best for you.”
He turned to go, and she asked, “Was the note bad news?”
“Can’t say. I’ll have to go now, though.” Then he walked away toward his horse. She stood watching him. The scene had disturbed her, and she wrestled with her thoughts until he stepped into the saddle and rode away. She started to go back to the dance, but a slight movement on the ground pulled her eyes down. A piece of paper was blowing over the grass, and she picked it up. It was a message printed in large letters with a blunt pencil: IF YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR PARTNER BE AT THE OLD INDIAN CAMP AT EIGHT TONIGHT. DON’T TELL ANYBODY—AND COME ALONE.
Hope looked quickly toward where Winslow was now a small figure on the horizon. She put the note in her pocket and went back to the dance, troubled by the message. He doesn’t need to go alone, she thought. It occurred to her to tell Sid or Smoky about the note, but decided that she couldn’t. Later that night, after they got home, she lay awake for hours listening for the sound of his horse—but it never came.
****
Everyone knew the Old Indian Camp, for it was a storied place. There were several mounds where one could pick up arrowheads and bits of pottery, and it had been one of the spots that Dan had visited with Cody on one of their hunting trips.
The site lay in the folds of the hills beside a large creek that meandered through the hills, then made its way across the flatland. Several men had tried to homestead the place, but Arrow had made it too unpleasant, so it was now used by hunters and punchers for night camps.
Dan made a quick trip, and when he pulled up beside the creek, was disappointed to find no one there. It had occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap, so he kept his eyes open and listened carefully. An owl hooted to his right, and something about the sound didn’t seem normal. He dismounted and walked along the edge of the timber, and at that moment, a man called out, “That you, Winslow?”
Even as the voice struck him, a sudden explosion came from across the creek, and a bullet smashed into the tree beside him. At once he drew and fired on the rifle flash, but he saw the shapes of several men appear. Little yellow and purple rosettes of muzzle light began to flash from their guns.
Winslow stepped backward, whirled, and raced toward his horse, but the barrage of fire was so heavy, he knew he would never make it. Ducking into the trees, he raced away, drawing fire. When he came to a small gully, he turned, threw two shots, then dropped into the gully. It was rough and lined with loose stones, but he ran as fast as he could, hoping to find safety in the darkness.
He heard someone yell from behind him, “He’s headed that way!” and knew that if a man were in front of him, all he’d have to do was wait for a shot. The gully was no good, so he scrambled up the side, fell clumsily, and heard a yell to his right, then saw the flare of the man’s gun.
He ducked and whirled, plunging into the thickets. The branches scratched his face, and he suddenly splashed into the creek—but just as he did, a bullet struck his right leg, feel
ing like a huge scythe, cutting him off his feet with one stroke and dropping him to his knees. He felt no pain, but shock ran through him as he rolled over. He heard the sound of crashing through the brush, and rolled over the slope into the creek itself. The water was cold, and the pain from his right leg hit him.
“Watch out!” someone was yelling. “He’s doubled back on us!”
As Winslow settled into the water with just his head above the surface, two men ran by less than a yard away. He pulled himself along to a deeper spot where a huge cedar had fallen across the stream. The length of the tree spanned the creek, making a large pond, and undergrowth had sprung up around the upper section. Winslow pulled himself out of the water, dragging himself along until he was hidden by the bulk of the tree on one side and surrounded by saplings and vines on the other. The sounds grew fainter and fainter, but the pain in his leg was a searing fire.
He lay there gritting his teeth against the waves of pain, then when it grew even worse, dropped into a black pit where there was no sound and no light and no pain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
Overhead the stars glittered like cold frozen points of light, and a night breeze cooled by the hills reached into Winslow’s hiding place. The cold air had brought him back to consciousness, and he stayed awake for hours, his leg stiffening and becoming increasingly more painful. At times the silence would close in, so that he could hear only muffled sounds of water flowing over stones and occasionally a lonely coyote’s anthem to the night.
He was lying flat on his back on the broken stems of reeds, with stones punching his flesh, but the cold and the pain that shot through his leg when he moved—or even when he didn’t—made all other discomforts seem slight. He thought once of trying to get his boots off, but when he bent over and pulled at his right foot, the pain hit him like a sharp knife, and he gave up.
Not going to get dry, anyway, he thought, and lay back to endure the rest of the night. Yet even that was not certain, for the voices of men and the movement of horses came to him more than once as the night passed. Once he heard a voice not more then twenty-five feet away say, “Hey, Dion—look around that big cedar. He could’ve crawled in there—!”
House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman Page 25
